Orion's Belt
by BlackRoseGirl666
Summary: After being killed by their ex-wives and Molly, Harry, Ron, Neville, and many others are sent back to relive their lives. And this time, it's no fun and games until certain someones are dead. Warnings: Slash, femSlash, Mpreg mentions, Violence, Poly Relationships, Bashing - Ginny, Hermione, Dumbledore, Molly. Adopted from Lone-Angel-1992.
1. Take One

After all that he had survived, Ron couldn't believe that this was how his life was going to end. Fifty wands stood against the throats of those he loved while his fingers grasped uselessly at empty air. He was positioned as best he could to cover both Harry and Neville - an advantage of his height – yet he didn't think for a second that his cover would save them. The effectiveness of noble sacrifice had been depleted years ago, Ron thought bitterly. He wondered if Lily Potter had thought the same or if her faith had been stronger. Unfortunately for Ron, he was a strategist. He knew how to count moves, predict outcomes. He had only grown sharper since the War had made him maneuver real people. His work was in reality and lately reality had little room for faith. He could see that, like so many others, his loves would not survive him. They would all die here. Yet, _Gods,_ he loved his husbands enough to pretend otherwise, if only for a moment.

Ron closed his eyes. How had they come to this? He knew, intellectually, but he didn't like to think about it. Yet, with the ozone tinge of spellsmoke hanging as heavy in the air as the sorrow in his heart, he was heedless to fight the memories. He lost himself in them, mind drifting relentlessly to that first, terrible summer.

May, 1998. They had lost Tonks and Ron's father at the Battle of Hogwarts but not so many others. That was due mostly to the surprising change of the Malfoy family's heart, Ron could admit now. They had driven Voldemort from their manor in the summer of fourth year and turned informant in the same breath. With that one move, the Dark had been fractured and the Grey destabilized. The War had still been hell but time had given Ron room to recognize at least some of the blessings that had taken place. The death of Sirius Black, some two weeks after the Battle, hadn't weathered time so well at all.

Ron's stomach twisted. Harry's howl upon learning the news still haunted his mind. They had taken some peace in knowing that Sirius had died as he would have wished: defending his husband, Severus, and their unborn child – but his sacrifice had been in vain. Severus' life and that of their child had been taken before the grass had grown over Sirius' grave. Revenge taken by the leaderless Dark, the aurors had eventually declared. With Sirius and Severus gone, the Black fortune had fallen to their remaining heir, Harry Potter and his wife, Ginny Potter nee Weasley. With that inheritance, Harry had also received a desire for revenge. Immediately, Harry had volunteered his services to the aurors hunting down Dark remnants. Ron had joined, too. He had been unwilling to let his best friend get himself killed even if his own wife, Hermione, would be remaining at home like Ginny.

Or, well. That had all been done immediately _after_ the funerals. It had felt like they had spent all of May '98 burying people. Hell, by now it felt like burying people was all they had ever done.

Despite throwing themselves into hunting down the Dark, the first week of June had finished before Ron had even had an inkling of how much danger they were truly in. He had come home early from auror training, hoping to surprise his wife. He had brought flowers. He had figured that she could use some cheering up after all those "awful lies" Rita Skeeter was writing about her in the paper. Or maybe he was just trying to alleviate his own guilt. By that point, Ron had known that he had fallen in love with Harry. He had also known that his feelings for Neville weren't much less.

Before he'd had the time to drag himself further over the coals, however, Ron had heard the words that he would never forget:

'" _The papers will be talking about us for ages, Hermione! 'Heart-broken War Widows Mourn Heroic Husbands!' Have you ever heard of anything better?'"_ The sound of a pair of wineglasses clinking together had rung across the kitchen. Ron had just barely been able hear them from the entrance way but the sound was unmistakable.

'" _No, especially after all the shit we've been through. Thank God Molly had that Amortentia recipe on hand or this would have all been much harder,'"_ Hermione had mused aloud.

Ginny had hummed agreeably. _'"Hiding it in the muffins was genius. Don't even need those marriage contracts of Dumbledore's, now. Those things have been gathering dust for ages."_

" _Yes, this really was much more natural. Now all that's left to do is take the livestock to market!'"_ They had giggled together, then. A high, girlish shriek that had haunted Ron in his dreams for weeks to come. Still did, some nights, though obviously not for much longer, Ron thought bitterly.

Still, they had at least managed some revenge. Little had the women known, Ron and Harry had only eaten those _genius_ muffins when they couldn't refuse them. They had tasted absolutely terrible, after all. Harry and Ron had thrown them out every chance they'd had. That had certainly explained why the love they had felt for their wives had seemed to fade while they were away at auror camp. They had both felt so terrible for falling in love with each other and Neville while they were away fighting rogue Death Eaters that the Amortentia poisoning and murder plot had nearly been a relief. Ron could only imagine how surprised Ginny and Hermione were when the marriage termination papers were served. Amortentia use had made them effective immediately. At the time, they had naively thought that the divorce would be enough. Ron, Harry, and Neville had dropped out of the auror camps and spent the summer together in the tropics, courting each other and figuring out the little details of their relationship. They had traveled in the muggle world, spent days spoiling each other rotten, and generally forgotten about magic.

On the final day of August, Ron had said his vows – this time free of Amortentia.

However, while Ron had been getting married, in Wizarding Britain Lucius Malfoy had bled out on the Ministry steps. Without his voice moderating a conservative, extreme-Light House of Lords, a slew of laws had passed. One of the most terrible was the 'Peaceful Creatures' Bill. This had detailed the new laws for the euthanization of dangerous magical creatures – including werewolves. Consigned to a new category ('XXXXXX – murderous, terminate immediately'), groups of wizards and witches had branded themselves as hunters and stormed across the nation. Remus Malfoy, blindsided by the bill and in London to organize Lucius' final affairs, had been struck down in the streets. Teddy Malfoy, toddler son of Lucius and Remus, would have perished as well, had it not been for Narcissa Shacklebolt. She had been able to spirit the boy away, though not for long. Caught attempting to flee to the Americas with Teddy and Kingsley Shacklebolt, all three had been executed for treason. Kingsley's status as interim-Minister for Magic had been stripped from him only two days before. The Wizengamot had cited "Dark bias" as justification for his removal. Ron could only assume that the tossers had meant his fair treatment of magical creatures and his marriage to the former Lady Malfoy by that.

By all accounts, magical Britain had lost its mind at that point. Riots had broken out and been viciously suppressed. The subtle attacks on purebloods, Dark magicals, and other opponents to the extreme Light became blunt. Mad-Eye Moody had roused something of a resistance, but he had fallen after no less than thirty-four aurors attacked his base of operations. Ron had heard that his famous last words ran along the lines of: "I would have been _dead_ by now if you'd learned fuck all from me! CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

Ron, Harry, and Neville had arrived back in Britain what seemed to Ron to be a day late and a penny short. Or, well, maybe a few months late. He often tortured himself wondering if they could have put a stop to all of the bloodshed if they had just remained in the Britain. Maybe they would have died. Maybe that would have been better. Ron would never know. All he knew was what had been. He knew that when they had tried to Floo back home after their wedding, they had been cut-off from their destination and detained by the Ministry. He knew that that had been its own kind of hell – one they wouldn't have escaped if not for, of all miserable people, Dolores Umbridge. She had freed Harry, Neville, and Ron from the bowels of the Ministry, then died by an Aveda Kedvra meant for Harry. She had saved his life. Ron still wasn't quite able to wrap his head around that.

Her last words had been to Harry, as she had guided them through the halls: "I will not lie, Mr. Potter. The Ministry is no longer worth saving—I do not think it is _able_ to be saved."

After that, life had become a haphazard blur of helter-skelter movement, desperation, and violence. They had gathered the fragile embers of Moody's Resistance, shamelessly using Harry's fame to stoke what they could to flame. They had set up safe houses for hunted magicals and persecuted creatures. They had played jump rope with the lines between Light magic, Dark magic, and plain evil. The Ministry had hunted them. Harry had been branded a Dark Lord. Safe houses had been destroyed. So, so many people had died. Of Ron's family, he was the only brother left. Desolation clawed at him daily; he buried it with a bitter smirk. At least they had all made it to the new millennium, even if some hadn't seen the year close out, as in Percy's case.

Rumour said that Percy had died at the Minister's desk, just before blowing up the whole sodding hellhole. There was more to it than that, Ron knew, but thought that that was still a fitting legacy for his brother. Fred and George, not to be outdone by Percy, had gone out with a blaze of glory just this February. They had taken most Diagon Alley, by then dominated by a gallows for the condemned, with them. Bill had died with his unlikely mate, Fenrir Greyback, a month later. Ron had received word that Charlie had died saving a safe house just a handful of days ago.

Ron swallowed, pushing back his swelling grief. Of all his family, Percy had been the only one who had managed to die on his own terms. Seemed awfully poetic, looking back. Percy always had made a plan for everything.

Rita Skeeter, Merlin bless her soul, had done her very best to expose what was going on. Her articles had started with the War, detailing the entire torrid reign of Minister Rufus Scrimgeour. She had dedicatedly covered the Final Battle, asking hard questions about how the War was fought. Why were children on the frontline? Why was Voldemort's takeover even possible after the First War? Then, when the officials had proclaimed the War was over but the fighting and death hadn't seemed to stop, she had gone deeper. Even in the days before Sirius had died, she had been writing exposés on Hermione Weasley's moves in the Ministry. On the suspicious deaths of Amelia Bones and her niece, Susan. On the horrible attack on the Avery & Patil law firm and the murder of Parvati Patil. As the violence had worn on, Rita had only become more critical of the Ministry. She had been forced from _the Prophet_ by October of 1998. She had then gone underground, working with Luna and Theo Nott to distribute a rebel newspaper – _the Cassandra Times._

Rita's assistants, Lavender Brown and Dennis Creevey, had gone with her. They had flushed the public with vivid photography of what had become known as the 'Light Purges.' Beginning with the Final Battle of the Second Voldemort War, the phrase described Wizarding society's shift to the extreme Light. It covered the book burnings, mass-destroyed portraits, artifacts, family manors, creatures … Anything that might have at all been the least bit Grey had been put on the list to be torched. People, too.

Ron had never stopped kicking himself for not believing Rita earlier.

Lavender and Dennis had died not long ago, back in the middle of April. Executed by a hit squad after releasing one last newspaper. The front page had featured Rita Skeeter's defiant face as she had received the Kiss. The story had covered her farce of a trial, including her last words: "For the record, I didn't twist the facts. The truth was damning enough." That paper had whipped up enough of an outrage that a few of the Resistance, including Ron, had been able to get out of Dodge. Luna, Theo, and her father had not been so lucky. They had been apprehended and executed two days after Lavender and Dennis. They had hung for more counts of treason than Ron had fingers and toes.

Ron didn't expect to be feeling those much longer. He let himself be drug back to reality, meeting his executioners' eyes head-on.

Albus Dumbledore stood in the lead. He clutched the remains of their snapped wands in his knarled hands. He had been on a monologue about the shame of their "shift to Darkness" while Ron had been ruminating. Ron still couldn't bring himself to focus entirely on the man's words. Dumbledore had clung to his power with both bloodied, powerful hands. The current Minister for Magic was as much a puppet as Fudge had been. Even more so; at least Fudge had sometimes changed masters. Here was the Leader of the Light in every way that mattered – Albus Dumbledore.

The aforementioned Minister was also in attendance, likely to get the glory for taking out the newest Dark Lord and his court. He had brought along what was left of his Auror Department, who made up the bulk of the killing circle. Ron could understand the tactical advantage in that.

The most damning faces were those that were most familiar to Ron. By Dumbledore was Ron's mother, Molly – just _Molly_ , seeing as she and Ginny had both been disowned from the Weasley and the Prewett families, Ron thought with vicious pleasure. Ginny and Hermione stood with her, smug. Whatever. If money was still their motive, they would be in for a terrible surprise. With no family left, their fortunes would be donated back to the Goblins to help increase their security. There was no telling when the Ministry would come for them. The only condition was that they had to offer to help other fleeing magicals as well.

Molly took a step forward. She attempted to grab Ron's ear, like she had when he was a child, but he managed to avoid her grubby hands. Who knew where they had been, he thought, disgusted. _How could I have ever called this –_ _disgrace_ _– my mother?_ Ron wondered, sick and hurt.

Molly simply sneered at him, running a possessive finger along his cheek despite Ron's flinch. "You should have behaved better, Ronnikins."

"Like Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon?" He snapped. They were her brothers. However, Ron had the feeling they wouldn't want to be addressed as such if they had known that she had been the one to slip their location to the Death Eaters. Ron had had trouble believing it at first, even after everything, but spending so much time with Dark magicals had revealed many terrible secrets.

Her eyes narrowed. "They were in the way, much like you are, _dear_."

Ron felt Harry try to push forward, Neville right beside him, but he shook his head. She wasn't worth it. How could Arthur Weasley have married such a cold-hearted woman? Ah, yes – love potions. An even better question would be how such a woman had avoided bringing about another Voldemort. Arthur Weasley's influence must have had a purifying effect. Ron guessed Ginny had spent too much time with her mother to have been saved.

Sickened by the collection in front of him, Ron turned to look at his allies. Dean stood on Ron's left, just as banged up as Ron. Dean held his boyfriend Seamus up with trembling arms. Seamus blinked sluggishly. Concussion, Ron diagnosed needlessly. He remembered starting the cheer when they finally got together in sixth year. Mostly because he had won the betting pool, but semantics.

Just behind Dean were the sisters, Daphne and Astoria Greengrass. Daphne had an arm slung around Astoria, her right leg crippled by a bone-breaker curse. Astoria's free arm was wrapped around her stomach, failing to keep her blood from flowing free. Daphne sneered imperiously while Astoria snarled like a wild thing. Ice and fire, Ron thought. He had always been grateful to have their burn on his side – even if that wasn't going to change anything now.

On Ron's other shoulder was Draco, a huge slash pulling his face out of shape. He was nearly painted in blood. Draco's husband, Blaise, stood in line with Neville and Harry. The white of his left eye was blood red and he was missing most of his fingers on his wand hand. Ron winced. Blaise's passion was music. He had even been in the choir at Hogwarts. For him, at least, death might be kinder than a life unable to play instruments. Draco met Ron's eye and nodded once. Draco, too, knew what shape they were in. He turned to kiss Blaise and Ron looked away. He had been Draco's best man at their on-the-run wedding. Neville had said the blessing, having been the only one who knew the traditional words other than the grooms. Harry had stood for Blaise.

Their wedding was one of Ron's last happy memories.

Completing their beaten huddle were husbands Marcus and Oliver Flint. Both had been Quidditch professionals, once upon a time. They didn't look like they would ever be playing again, though. Marcus was all but carrying Oliver, who had lost his lower arm to a bombarda. Even without the wands aimed at them, Oliver wouldn't survive the hour. Ron closed his eyes against the rage roaring in his throat.

Gods. What had they ever done to deserve this?

Someone put a hand on Ron's shoulder and he turned to see Neville. He had filled out since school, making Harry the smallest, but Ron still had a few inches on him. Neville was blood-soaked, his right arm hanging brokenly at his side. He looked somehow lopsided without Gryffindor's sword, which had become his main weapon in recent years. The poor thing lay in pieces half-way across the room, shattered by some obscure curse from Dumbledore. Ron had thought Neville had been hit with a _crucio_ when he had realized the damage done to the sword.

Neville already had his good arm looped around Harry's waist. "I love you both," he murmured, his signature sheepish grin creeping out from between his bloodied lips. Tears blurred Ron's vision.

"I love you both, too," Ron croaked. He had been hit with a strangulation hex early on. His words left a coppery taste in his mouth. It was worth it, though, to see Harry's sad smile. Harry only ever smiled sadly anymore and even those were hard to pry out of him. Harry had taken each death personally, cloaking himself in Sirius' beaten leather jacket like a memorial. Still, he was vicious and confident and still managed to be funny, sometimes. Out of all of them, he was the only one who still looked like he could put up a fight, even covered in brutal bruising.

Giving up any pretense, Ron turned fully towards them and swept both of them into his arms. Neville buried his face into Ron's shoulder and pressed a kiss against his neck. Harry clung much the same, slipping his arms around Ron and Neville as though to lock them in place. His words were a gentle hiss of parseltongue and Ron took a moment to realize the sibilant whispers were their wedding vows. Harry had a penchant for the language, even after all that had happened, and their vows had become a favourite oath of his to murmur. As the battles had crashed by, Neville and Ron could almost mimic him.

Ron closed his eyes. If there was a prayer of a chance, Ron hoped that Neville and Harry would live, even if it was without him. So that maybe in the future there would be a green-eyed baby with messy hair and a heart-shaped face. Ron liked Orion for a name, after their favorite constellation. The constellation, their constellation, was made up of three bright stars.

Tonight, those stars shone above them and silently, Ron made a wish. He wished that he, his husbands, their friends and Resistance leaders, their murdered family members, their persecuted allies, could have a second chance at this life. He wished it _so hard_.

He faced back towards his death. He would die before his husbands would. He would have it no other way.

Spells were shot. His world went black in a burst of colour.

* * *

 **Hello, everyone! Here's hoping you like what I've done with the first chapter of _Orion's Belt_ , which I've been lucky enough to adopt from the wonderful Lone-Angel-1992! Mostly, I've just cleaned up the grammar and written the story over to better reflect my writing style. Additional changes include some tinkering with the dynamics between Harry, Neville, and Ron (though be assured, the ship will stay the same), and ironing out some knots in the backstory.**

 **In other news, this chapter has been beta'd! Thanks, LoonyLaLuna! Also, I recently (8/16/2017) edited this again so that the tense matched the rest of the story. How I missed that for literally two years I do not know. I also fixed the timeline some more.**

 **Terminology:**

 **The War - Refers to the Second Wizarding War against Voldemort and the Death Eaters.**

 **The Final Battle - May 2, 1998, the Battle of Hogwarts during Deathly Hollows.**

 **The Light Purges - Takes place from May of 1998 through to 2001, when Ron and company die. Essentially, this is when all the deaths and awful things done by Molly, Ginny, Hermione and other antagonists take place.**

 **The Resistance - The good guys who don't wind up dead in those first few months of the Light Purges. Led by mainly by Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, and Daphne Greengrass.**

 **If you have any questions, feel free to PM me. Otherwise, reviews are always appreciated!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	2. Canary Yellow

**September 1, 1991**

Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. Covering one side was the image of an ancient old man, his white beard falling past the bottom of the frame. His blue eyes twinkled from behind a pair of half-moon spectacles. Written in fancy script at the bottom was 'Albus Dumbledore.'

"So, this is Dumbledore," Harry said, turning the card over in his hands. A bunch of facts filled the card.

"Don't tell me you've never heard of Dumbledore," Ron scoffed. "Hey, can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa – thanks."

Harry turned the card back over and saw that, to his astonishment, Dumbledore had disappeared. "He's gone!"

"Let's pray he stays that way!" Ron snapped.

Harry nodded firmly.

…Wait. What that hell?

Both Ron and Harry jumped up, young bodies falling into their best approximations of the battle stances they had once known down to their bones. They eyed each other, shocked. Harry could barely bite back a gasp as he took in what Ron looked like – _again_. He was tall, thin, and gangly, with big hands and bigger feet. His ears stuck out and his nose dominated his face. His eleven-year-old body still didn't quite know what to do with all the extra length that Ron's twenty-one-year-old self would layer with muscle. His jaw had yet to balance out his ears and his cheek bones were hidden by baby-fat. His hair was still a vibrant red but fell floppily into his eyes, hiding their sharp blue. Freckles littered his face with cheerful abandon.

Harry, thinking distantly of what he had looked like at eleven, bit his lip and looked away. He was even tinier than he had remembered, shorter than Ron by at least a head. His brushed a hand through his hair, feeling the uncontrollable mess that only length had ever tamed. His awful Dursely glasses still covered his face, which was doubtlessly pale and thin, just like the rest of him. He looked down at his clothes, horrified to see Dudley's castoffs again. He practically swam in them, only serving to make him look smaller. How had no one ever picked him out as a neglected child, Harry thought, momentarily stunned, if not an abused one? Gods, what had been wrong with the adults in his life?

Wait, no. Focus, Harry chastised himself. Focus. He swept his eyes up again, taking in the familiar interior of the Hogwarts Express. The sound of the train, rocking gently as the tracks ticked away below the dull carpet. The smell of children and teenagers packed into small spaces, laid over with the distinctive not-scent of freshener charms. Ron Weasley, staring at him in complete captivation, all of eleven-years-old.

 _Oh hell_ , Harry thought, bordering on hysterical. _We're back in time_. How had that happened? The last he remembered was - _dying_. So many people, just – _dying_.

Ron made a weird crossbreed of a sob and laugh. He dropped the wand Harry hadn't even consciously catalogued him as having raised. Staring at his own hand, Harry belatedly did the same. Obviously, just because their bodies were now young and their surroundings familiar didn't mean that their instincts were prepared to leave behind their life-time of memories. That, at least, was a comfort. So was not being dead, Harry allowed wryly.

Swallowing, Harry took a step towards Ron, who bit back a flinch. Harry paused. "It's okay," Harry said, "It's me, Ron, I swear on my magic."

Finally, the tension went out of Ron's shoulders. "Oh, thank the Gods."

With a wavering laugh, Harry pulled Ron into a hard hug, relaxing himself only when Ron's long arms settled around his waist. For a moment, he simply buried his nose in husband's – his once-husband's? Did time travel negate a marriage? – neck and breathed in the comforting smell of soap and skin. For that moment, he let himself be grateful. Sure, they were inexplicably eleven in every way but mind, but they were alive when they should have been dead. That was something, at least.

Yet, Harry thought, it was not enough. Pulling away, he set his hands on Ron's shoulders and looked into his blue eyes. "Neville…" he murmured.

Pain flickered across Ron's face. Harry sighed. With gentle hands, Harry pulled him towards the seat Harry had staked for his own, clearing the candies to the side. The sight of their spoils only served to remind Harry just where they were. Shaking his head, Harry buried the anxiety he felt building in his gut and adjusted them so that Harry could lean back against the window with Ron's head against his chest. He ran his fingers through Ron's soft hair. Struggling for confidence, Harry began to speak gently. "We're back. Everything is going to be okay, now."

He would make sure of it, Harry swore. If it was the last thing he did. If they truly were back - and Harry just had to believe that; what other explanation could there possibly be? - then this was an unprecedented opportunity.

Ron snapped to attention. He angled his head back to catch Harry's eye, his fists clenching at his sides. "No." Ron growled, "It's going to be better. Starting with that _bitch_."

Harry made a commiserating sound. Honestly, there were half a dozen people Harry thought could be described by that term, so he wasn't entirely sure which Ron meant. He supposed one would be as good as any, though. Still, when Ron moved to get up from their spot Harry pushed him back gently. Ron didn't put up a fight.

Harry smiled, running his fingers lightly through Ron's hair. Back in school, Harry had always been the one with the impulsivity issues, he mused. It would seem that this time around it would be him soothing Ron's protective streak.

At least he would have Neville to help him, this time. He had to have Neville.

"Do you think we're the only ones back?" Harry asked in a rush, voicing indirectly what Ron hadn't been able to. _Is Neville back?_ The Fates couldn't possibly be so cruel –

Wait, Harry paused, thinking about what he had been through. Yes, they could.

"Merlin, I hope not," Ron muttered. He turned his face into Harry's hand, as thought that might somehow protect him from the possibility.

"What do we do?" Harry asked softly. He didn't mean to ask but the words slipped out all the same.

Ron didn't answer at first. "We wait for someone to find us," he said at last.

Harry made an agreeable noise. There was no use in stirring the cauldron if they didn't even know the ingredients. So, Harry merely kept up what he was doing, gratified when Ron finally drifted off.

As time slipped by, Harry watched the countryside flying past the window disappear, the neat fields bleeding into raw forest. He supposed about an hour had passed when Ron woke and they began to make their way through a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. They were picking through the most iffy-looking ones when a hesitant knock rattled the compartment door.

Sharing a look with Ron, Harry called for the knocker to come in. Almost instantly, a teary heart-shaped face poked through the door. Wet chocolate eyes regarded them dolefully. "Sorry," the eleven-year-old Neville said, "but have you seen a toad at all?"

Harry and Ron looked at each other. They could both tell when Neville was faking tears. Neville only did so because wanted something or because he wanted to know something. They had quickly learned to pick out his tells to preserve birthday surprises and Christmas presents.

The last time he had been in tears - the night of their deaths, Harry thought faintly – Neville hadn't been faking. This time, he _definitely_ was.

"That depends," Ron started, quirking an eyebrow. "Are you still planning on naming our first born after that damned thing?"

Neville beamed, scrambling into their arms. Harry whispered praises to every deity he could think of. Their Neville was back, too. They settled quickly down beside each other and, for a moment, everything was sweet and perfect as they basked in each other's presence.

"I was so worried," Neville said. "I thought I might be the only one back-" the rest of his words were cut off by a yawn. Apparently, spontaneous time travel was rather exhausting, Harry thought, amused. If it weren't for his fear of nightmares, he might have given in to a nap himself.

Ron pulled out his wand, smiling gently. "Here, let me conjure up a blanket, love."

However, just as Ron was about to cast, the compartment door slid open again. Hermione Granger stood there again, an eleven-year-old once again and already wearing her new Hogwarts robes. She was framed by the doorway like a B-movie villain trying to make a dramatic entrance.

Neville stiffened, hand reaching for a sword he wouldn't wield until seventh year. Biting back a sigh, he took up his father's wand while Harry already spun his holly-and-phoenix feather between his fingers. Ron let a poisonous expression drift across his face, fingers tightening around the ancient wand he'd had for his first two years.

 _Note to self_ , Ron thought, eyeing the wand. It only worked about half-well for him, being a hand-me-down of some dead relative. The first chance they had, they had to go shopping for some proper equipment.

Hermione, oblivious to the sudden shift in the atmosphere, continued to stand there with a superior look on her face. Apparently, she was unable to figure out that all three other occupants would have rather liked to curse her face off. "Has anyone seen a toad?" She started, head tipped up arrogantly. "A boy named Neville-" Hermione's eyes widened as she noticed Neville. "Oh, hello. I thought I lost you."

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," Ron snapped. Logically, he knew this girl was yet innocent of what the Hermione Granger had done in their world – their timeline? That didn't stop the rage he felt boiling in his gut, however.

In any case, Hermione ignored him; she was looking at the wand in his hand. "Oh, are you doing magic?" She asked, perking up immediately. "Let's see it, then." She sat herself down expectantly. Her words sounded like a command.

Ron smirked, a wonderful idea swimming to the fore. "All right, then."

He cleared his throat and pulled out Scabbers. He almost dropped the rat right there, as realization descended that _Peter Pettigrew_ had been in his pocket, just like the first time around. From the brief shock that skittered across Harry's face, he wasn't the only one who had forgotten about his odious little _pet_ , either. However, Ron had been through a war, a rebellion, and was now just getting the hang of time travel. He was a bit harder to shake than he had been as an actual elven-year-old. Summoning up his magic, he cast a silent sleeping charm on the little bastard to keep him from causing any trouble until they figured out what to do with him. That managed, Ron went back to his fun.

Discreetly pointing his wand at Hermione's face, he cast a silent color spell. Between one blink and the next, Hermione Granger was bright canary yellow. Behind Ron, he could hear Harry choking on a laugh, nearly wrecking the whole thing. Ron bit back his grin harder as he caught Neville's elbow digging into Harry's side, turning the laugh into a cough. Hermione merely glared at the both of them for being a distraction. Ron grinned winningly at her before dramatically clearing his throat.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow," he chanted to a charming singsong tune, "turn this stupid, fat rat yellow!" Ron waved his wand for added effect, but, of course, nothing happened. Pettigrew stayed gray and fast asleep.

"Are you _sure_ that's a real spell?" Hermione asked snottily.

 _I'm a first-year_ , Ron spat in his mind. Color charms weren't even taught until second. Only the years no one could read on his body had let him pull his little prank off.

"Well, it's not very good, is it?" Hermione said smugly. Her hands had drifted to her hips, her shoulders settling back confidently.

Harry thought would have liked to hit her, then; the muggle way, just the once. He just might have, too, plots and schemes be damned, if not for the fact that he could barely keep a straight face when met with her yellow one. Not laughing took all of his considerable effort. As he exchanged glances with Neville, he knew he wasn't the only one feeling it, either.

In the background of their mirth, Hermione rambled on the way she had the first time they had met her. By the time she was done, the flush on her cheeks made her face look a bit orange. Harry finally broke into a suspicious coughing fit that even Neville couldn't silence. Hermione glared at them, cheeks reddening more, which just made it harder for Harry to get a grip.

Finally, Ron took pity on him. "Well, you already know Neville," Ron said congenially, "And I think that is already too much." Hermione gasped, surprised and offended, but Ron merely rolled his eyes. "Leave, please."

"Well, I never-"

Harry joined Ron. "And you never will again," Harry drawled, channeling his inner Draco Malfoy. "Get out of here before we catch your godawful attitude." Hermione looked near tears when, after a stunned beat, she finally fled the compartment.

Once they were sure she was well and truly gone, they turned back to sit with Neville, who sent them a quelling look from his place reclined on the seats. Harry felt himself blush. Alright, he amended, so maybe the impulsivity thing was still going to be something of an issue of his. He smiled innocently at Neville. Ron mirrored it quickly.

Neville snorted. "Don't give me those puppy dog eyes. You two are as subtle as a brick through a window." He smiled, "But you're my bricks, so come sit down and keep me warm."

With matching grins, Harry and Ron did as they were told. In minutes, the trio was cuddled up under a huge, fluffy grey blanket transfigured from Ron's jacket. At about three, they finally shrugged out of their nest to don their uniforms, not wanting to be rushed as they had the first time around.

Harry hummed happily as the semi-thick autumn robes settled over his shoulders. He should have done this immediately, he thought, screw looking like a suck up. Anything would have been better than wearing Dudley's castoffs. He almost felt like a proper wizard, a proper _person,_ again. All that was missing was his wand holster, he thought critically. He hadn't quite been able to put his wand down since 'returning' to this time. There was a pocket in the robe for it but not in a convenient location for a quick draw. Placing his wand there went against his instincts, so instead he just settling for keeping his wand in hand.

Neither Ron nor Neville missed how Harry kept toying with his wand. They cast each other concerned looks but didn't say anything. Harry had always been the wary one of them and they knew better than to try and settle him. It didn't help that Mad-Eye Moody had mentored Harry all throughout the War, either.

Ron was taking Neville through the finer points of not having a toad when the compartment door slid open yet again. Just as before, three boys entered but not the exact same three boys from the first time around. Now, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, and Theo Nott stood there, already wearing their school robes.

Ron shook his head, chuckling. "Draco, you just gave yourself away by not bringing Crabbe and Goyle."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Possibly, but at least I didn't turn someone yellow."

"Accidental magic," Ron smirked, shrugging.

Draco narrowed his eyes but Blaise had a stilling hand on his shoulder before Draco had the chance to snap something caustic. "Remember your friends," Blaise murmured softly, making sure to catch the eye of all those in the compartment. "And better yet, remember what we have the opportunity to do." His voice was as sweet as poison.

Ron and Draco gave brisk nods.

Harry stood up, bringing himself to stand shoulder to shoulder with Ron. He drew Neville with him. "Do you know if anyone else made it back?"

Theo smiled, an alien thing on his typically solemn face. "We rounded up those back in our year. They're waiting in our compartment."

Draco turned, smirking over his shoulder. "Leave your things and come on."

They made quick work of the train, Draco, with Blaise all but holding his hand, leading and Theo to his left. Now officially in the 'Slytherin' section of the train, a set of compartments way far in the back where the prefects never really bothered to visit, there was a certain order to things. As the one with the most political clout and a legacy of Slytherin House, Draco acted almost like an immunity against inane people trying to get their attention. Even the draw of the Boy Who Lived wasn't enough incentive for nosy students to upset the hierarchy.

It was almost soothing, Harry thought, the predictability. He did appreciate that about 'traditional' (re: Dark) purebloods, sometimes.

Theo took exceptional pride in opening the compartment door, allowing the others to enter first. It wasn't a mystery to see why. The compartment had been expertly expanded to comfortably fit half of the first year and Harry could _feel_ the hum of the numerous noise-canceling and protective charms. It really was a nice piece of work. Harry would have expected nothing less from the future youngest charms master in British history. The other spectacular aspect to the compartment didn't have anything to do with Theo, though, but rather with the sheer amount of _rage_ radiating off its occupants.

Lavender Brown had her blond hair long and curly again, her pale skin free of scars. However, there was no carefree happiness in her brown eyes this time. They were hard and calculating; the eyes of a long-time, well-read reporter. The eyes of an enraged war veteran.

Next to her sat Parvati Patil, who had never lost her long black hair but once again wore it plaited, as she had at eleven. Parvati had a glare in her dark eyes that didn't belong on a first year but instead to a young, brilliant equal-rights lawyer murdered mysteriously at the height of the Light Purges.

Beside them, Dean and Seamus conversed quietly. Dean had lost the peaceable atmosphere he had once radiated - now, even the way Dean sat made him look dangerous. A common trait of all the soldiers Harry had trained. Seamus mirrored his boyfriend and this time when he laughed the chuckle that escaped him was cold and murderous.

On the other bench was Daphne Greengrass, long blond hair falling artfully around her cold blue eyes. Not much had changed about her, at first glance, but there was a certain violence to her posture. She had been another of Harry's top fighters in the Resistance. They exchanged nods before Harry moved on to the girl beside her.

Susan Bones stared out the window. Her expression was as fierce as her fiery red hair in the reflection. There was no doubt that she was out for blood in a way she had never been in her past life. She had been a healer, Harry thought. Neville had worked with her at Saint Mungo's before all hell had broken loose.

Next to her, Draco and Blaise had taken a seat, and next to them, Theo. Neville, Ron, and Harry took the seats opposite them.

The silence was deafening as everyone sized each other up. Harry was rather done with the tension, frankly. "I am not becoming a Gryffindor," he proclaimed. Several heads snapped to him.

"I don't give a damn!" Susan growled. She stood sharply and drew her wand. Her brown eyes were red-rimmed. "I just want Hermione Jean Granger to _suffer_!"

Daphne pulled her back down to her seat. She drew soothing circles on Susan's trembling shoulders, her gentle actions mismatched with the fury on her face. "Don't mind her. Terry didn't recognize her when we found him on the train."

"Oh, that's tragic," Lavender said sympathetically. Lavender had no idea if Dennis was _back,_ either. "But now's not the time." Her eyes narrowed, growing colder. "We have to focus on what we do as our next step. Which means Harry is right. The Sorting is our next step."

The room went quiet as everyone thought this over. The train ticking over the tracks began to sound liked a timer ticking down. No one seemed to want to voice the obvious.

Finally, right when Harry had about had enough, Dean leaned forward. "Slytherin," Dean stated simply.

Harry felt Ron and Neville tense on either side of him, probably on instinct. Even if they had grown close to certain members of the House once Lucius Malfoy had revealed himself as a spy, they had still locked up many Slytherins hunting Death Eaters. It might be a rough adjustment, but…

"It _is_ the most political house," Draco agreed. "We'll hear ever whisper and rumor and once we climb high enough, the hierarchy will keep people from making whispers and rumours about _us_. It should be easy to make it to the top of the ladder, too." After all, Draco had made it to King of Slytherin in their last life. If he had done it once as a blind child, he could do it again with a war and a rebellion under his belt.

There were sounds of agreement, though the non-Slytherins looked a bit hesitant. Draco figured that was to be expected and settle back against Blaise. Working _with_ people instead of just ordering them around was always such a bother.

"Do we know if any of the upper years have also returned?" _Or our families?_ Daphne purposely didn't ask. Harry, her old commander, in particular turned a bit white at the question. Must not have occurred to him, she mused. She hoped he had some luck there.

He deserved it. They all did.

Theodore Nott shook his head. "We thought it would be a bit suspicious if some random first years starting popping into the other years' compartments. I suggest that if you are missing someone, send them a letter and find out for yourselves." His face was even more grim than usual. Daphne remembered that he had been married to Luna Lovegood last time. The poor man must be just as worried about his once-wife as she was about Astoria.

The compartment was silent for a moment, everyone lost to their own worries. A disembodied voice broke the peace: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train." 

Ha, Daphne thought, did that count emotional baggage as well?

* * *

 **Beta'd by the lovely LoonyLaLuna! Give her a big cheer, guys!**

 **Also: YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING! I've never had such a supportive fan-base after adopting a story. I tried to answer everyone who reviewed, but as I received _thirty-six plus PMs_ , I don't think I quite managed it, which is entirely on me. Instead, I went back and editing this up for you guys :)**

 **PS: If you have questions about the story, though, I will make a point to answer those ASAP.**

 **Anyway,** **I've played with the length of chapters a bit. I've been trying my best to equalize things for continuity's sake, so if something seems off, that's probably it. Also, this chapter has recently (8/16/2017) been edited for the sake of the timeline/plot/my peace of mind. So that's why things may seem a bit different if you're re-reading. I hope you like the changes!**

 **Anyway, thank's for all your support! I can't wait to hear what you think about this chapter and if you have questions about something I've written don't hesitate to ask!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	3. Green Trim

On anxious legs, the returned first years made their way off the train and out onto a tiny, dark platform. Just like the last time around, Harry shivered in the cold night air but this time he found himself wishing for his leather jacket. Sirius' jacket, really, twice too big for him even in the future but he would have died before letting it go.

A smile curled Harry's lips. A thought had occurred to him during the train discussion and he had guarded it jealously ever since. Sirius was alive here. Even if Sirius didn't remember, Ron had Peter Pettigrew tucked into his coat pocket. They could have Sirius exonerated in _days_. Could anything be sweeter than that?Oh, this new life... Harry mused, eyes scanning his idyllic surroundings. Ron and Neville were roughhousing playfully just in front of him. His smile grew. This life couldn't possibly be worse than the last attempt. Not if Harry had anything to say about it.

A booming voice shook Harry from his musings. A lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students and all of the first years heard a familiar voice bellow again, "Firs' years! Firs' years, over here! All right there, Harry?"

Beside Harry, Lavender let out a tiny sob. Neville and Ron's heads whipped up from their horsing around to exchange pain-filled glances with Harry. Even Draco looked a little shaken at the voice of Hagrid.

"Yeah," Harry said, as brightly as he could. Ron appeared by his side and wrapped a friendly arm around his shoulders, Neville half a step behind him. Hagrid was dead in their time. He had been killed during a battle in the Forbidden Forest – no help had come from the castle.

Hagrid's big, hairy face beamed over the sea of heads. "C'mon, follow me — any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years, follow me!"

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. Neville couldn't stop a smile, thinking of all the strange and beautiful plants that grew among the thick trees lining the path. Oh, but Hogwarts really was home, even this far from the actual castle.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud 'Oooooh!' Even having already spent so much of their last lives here, the returned first years couldn't help but give in to the awe. Truly, there was nothing like Hogwarts. Perched atop the high mountain on the other side of Black Lake, the castle stood like a glittering guardian lit by hundreds of warm lights. Just looking at it felt like coming home.

Eager to be inside those familiar walls, the returned first years quickly sorted themselves into the fleet of boats waiting for them on the lip of the lake, Hagrid managing overall. Ron made sure that Neville and Harry got in first and followed them into the boat with Theo at his side. Ron smirked, pleased. There would be no sight of Hermione Jean Ganger for him this time around.

"Oi, you there! Is this your toad?" Hagrid called as they reached the other side of the shore.

"Trevor!" Neville cried blissfully, holding out his hands.

Ron growled as Neville embraced the creature. He cursed the thing under his breath. "Couldn't have stepped on the bleeding thing, could you, Hagrid?" he muttered. Neville shot him an irritated glare and Ron quickly shut up. Harry snickered in the background, though Ron noticed he still had his wand in hand.

Ron frowned for a moment. They would need to speak about that, at some point. There was no time to do so then, however, as Hagrid was quickly shepherding the first years up the trail from the lake to the castle. When they reached the door, he knocked thrice with big, heavy thumps. The door swung open at once, revealing a tall, stern woman in green robes.

"McGonagall," Harry murmured.

From there events proceeded just as they had before. McGonagall lead them into the side hall, where she read them her riot act about expectations and houses. Her eyes again lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened under his left ear from his horsing about with Ron. Neville tipped his chin confidently under her scrutiny. He had faced scarier thing in his nightmares than an old witch, no matter how ' _formidable'_.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall, looking away. Neville grinned triumphantly. "Please wait quietly."

Once she had left, Harry turned to Ron with a smirk. "So, how to you wager they sort us?"

Ron snorted. "Some sort of test, I think." Ron made his voice quiver with false fear, "Fred said it hurts!"

Harry looked around and saw that everyone else looked terrified or was pretending to be. Harry bit back a snicker. No one was talking much, though, except for Hermione Granger, who was whispering very fast about all the spells she had learned and wondering which one she would need. Those actual first years who had the misfortune of standing by her looked the most anxious. Those poor firsties nearly had a heart attack as the ghosts descended. Harry had needed every ounce of will he had to keep his laughter down to the minimum when Gregory Goyle shrieked, all but jumping into Crabb's arms.

Soon enough though McGonagall returned and shooed the ghosts away. Before he rightly knew it, Harry was again standing in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. He was breathless a moment as nostalgia suffused him. The thousands of candles shimmering in the air; the four tables laid with their golden crockery; the ghosts hanging like pearls above the sea of black-robed students. Those students, whose eyes seemed to bore into the first years as they lined up at the front of the hall.

Remembering his old trick for when the staring was particularly bad, Harry tilted his head back to the velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. He could almost believe that it was more than a charm; that the ceiling of the Great Hall really did open up to the heavens. Then he heard Hermione ruin the effect with, "It's bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History_."

Parvati shivered as she resisted the urge to turn around and punch Hermione. Parvati, after all, had the terrible luck of being placed in-between her twin and the recently un-yellowed Hermione. She snorted. How unfortunate. From what Parvati had heard, yellow suited the little beaver. She was broken from her musings as the hall burst into song. Apparently, McGonagall had set up the Sorting Hat while she had been lost in thought. No loss, Parvati thought. Ever since the Tri-Wizard Tournament she had been nothing but embarrassed by that stupid song.

"So we've just got to try on the hat!" Ron whispered playfully after McGonagall had gone through her instructions. "I'll kill Fred. He was going on about wrestling a troll!" Harry and Neville grinned back at him. Privately, Harry wondered if they would be able to avoid fighting the troll this time. He could definitely do without being covered in boogers again.

Finally, McGonagall began the ceremony, drawing Harry from is smelly memories. The A's went by as expected, as did the B's, until finally McGonagall called for, "Bones, Susan!"

Susan did her best to smile as she sat on the stool. She would be the first sign to any of the other students or teachers who had come back. The first inkling they would have that they were not alone. She could not mess this up. She had to keep to the plan and wind up in Slytherin. Merlin, and she had thought the ceremony had been nerve-wracking the _first_ time around!

Susan waited with baited breath as the hat debated with itself. _Oh, please,_ Susan thought. _I need this plan to succeed._

That, apparently, was the deciding factor. The hat bellowed, "Slytherin!"

The green table burst with applause. Fred and George Weasley stood up at the Gryffindor table and gave her a whoop, too, which immediately singled them out as returned. She gave them a little wave as she walked by.

Harry and the others watched the staff table for any kind of sign. There was none.

"Boot, Terry!"

From the Slytherin table, Susan watched with frozen eyes. He hadn't recognized her on the train but could he have regained his memories since then? Surely that hadn't _all_ come back at exactly the same time - could they have? Surely, surely -

"RAVENCLAW," the hat shouted.

Ravenclaw burst into applause, several students standing to shake hands with Terry as he joined them. To Susan it sounded as though they were cheering for her heart break. The next names flew by with Susan in a daze until the McGonagall called for, "Brown, Lavender."

Lavender smiled prettily as she sat down to be sorted. The hat didn't even seem to bother arguing. In a heartbeat, she joined Susan in,"Slytherin!"

Harry smiled as Lavender sashayed to her seat. Perhaps it was just Harry's imagination but he thought that that Slytherin looked a lot more welcoming than it had the first time he was a first year. Neville snickered when he whispered the thought to him.

"Finnegan, Seamus."

Seamus sat on the stool for almost a whole minute before the hat shouted, "Slytherin!" He left looking smug.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Hermione eagerly took her position. "GRYFFINDOR!" Rung out a moment later. No surprises there.

"Greengrass, Daphne!"

Daphne tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder as she sat down on the stool. Instantly, the Sorting Hat announced, "Slytherin!" Daphne snorted as she walked to her table. As if a few more thoughts of revenge would ever change her place in Slytherin House.

When Neville was called, he again fell over on his way to the stool. Harry felt himself wince in sympathy. How that someone who could fight so gracefully with a blade was still so clumsy with everything else amazed him. He gave Neville an encouraging smile, which predictably made Neville blush harder. Harry smiled. Well, at least Neville was cute about it.

The hat took a long time to decide with Neville, relegating Ron and Harry to watching on nervously. When the hat finally said"Slytherin" they both let out a sigh of relief. Neville, so relived, once again ran off still wearing the hat, and again had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it to, "MacDougal, Morag." Harry shared an affectionate glance with Ron.

Turning his eyes to the professors' table, Harry noticed that they had broken into mutters at Neville's placement. Harry was unable to resist a smirk – if Neville had them muttering, he wondered what they would do with him. Beside him, Ron grinned viciously until Harry needled him in the side for being obvious about it.

Draco swaggered forward when his name was called. Just like last time, the hat had barely touched his head before it screamed, 'SLYTHERIN!'

The hat seemed to have gotten into an argument with Theo, who wasn't backing down, until it gave in and announced, "Slytherin!"

"Patil, Padma," was called. Parvati glared, gritting her teeth until her own name was called.

Parvati sauntered up to the stool and sat down, much like Malfoy had done. The hat took barely half a minute to place her in, "'SLYTHERIN!"

'Potter, Harry!'

Just like before, Harry took his place to the hissing of whispers. Just as before, he did his best to block them out. He waited in darkness a long while and then –

'Hmm,' said a small voice in his ear. 'Believe me when I say your secrets are safe with me, Mr. Potter. And may I say, Welcome back. You're a difficult placement, even more so than last time. Very difficult, still plenty of courage, I see. A much better mind, though. There's talent still, oh, my goodness, yes… So where shall I put you?'

There we go, Harry thought. Harry gripped the edges of the stool and pushed Slytherin House to the front of his mind.

'You'll be great, you know, it's all here in your head,' said the small voice. 'Let's do this right this time, Mr. Potter'…"SLYTHERIN!"

There were gasps and murmurs, settling into a stunned silence. As Harry made his way to the Slytherin table, he glanced over his shoulder at McGonagall. She was having trouble concealing the shock in her eyes.

Harry grinned, unrepentant.

He sat down next to Seamus and Neville, who immediately teased him for causing, "Such a stir, Harry, really," in scandalized voices. At least he could see the High Table properly, now. At the end nearest him sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave him a thumbs up. Harry grinned back, glad to see that at least Hagrid hadn't cared where he went. In the center of the High Table, in his damned throne, Albus Dumbledore was gazing at Harry with a curious, disappointed gaze.

Harry struggled to keep his wand buried in his pocket, where his fingers could curl threateningly around it all he liked.

Harry was finally drug from his rage by McGonagall's call of, "Thomas, Dean!"

Dean didn't bother with smiling. His main job was to keep himself from cursing Dumbledore to death. Within seconds of wearing the hat, the damned thing seemed set on trying to convince him of his own bravery, which resulted in Dean rolling his eyes a lot. He knew he was bloody brave. He also knew that his aspirations involved the death of the most respected wizard in Britain. If that wasn't ambitious, he didn't know what the hat was smoking.

Eventually, the bloody thing gave up and yelled, "'Slytherin!"

"Weasley, Ron!" McGonagall seemed to be fighting back a smile when she called his name. The smile didn't last long, however, as Ron was barely there two minutes before the hat sorted him to, "Slytherin!"

Ron smirked as he sauntered to his new House. He had been the final sign to those in the Great Hall who were brought back. There were cheers from the Slytherins as he walked, as well as from those encouraged by to do so by the Gryffindor prefect, Percy Weasley. Regardless, Fred and George were still loudest in the hall.

Ron's smirk eased into a soft, relived smile. _Well, that's three brothers safe_ , he thought.

"Zabini, Blaise."

Blaise was nothing but regal as he sat and was sorted into, "Slytherin!" He went about taking his place beside Draco with the same air of royalty.

McGonagall seemed put out and it was obvious as to why: there was only one new Gryffindor this year. She cleared her throat, "If that is all-"

"I wish to be resorted!"

McGonagall sighed. She didn't really pay attention to who said it, but there was always at least one resort every few years. Either they were from Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw; usually, they just went back where they came from. "All those who wish to be resorted, stand before me in a line."

Fred, George, and Percy Weasley, Lee Jordan (who had blinked owlishly before scrambling to follow the twins), and Oliver Wood stood up. The Great Hall was dead silent as the five made their way to the front.

McGonagall looked tiredly at the twins and Lee Jordan as they got in line. "Misters Weasley and Mr. Jordan, you are aware that this is a matter not to be taken lightly." She paused. "And that there is only one re-sort per student." She added when they didn't move.

"We're aware, Professor," Fred said.

"Very aware," George all but spat.

It was the first time that anyone in the Great Hall had ever seen the twins conduct themselves so seriously.

Lee merely nodded mutely, his eyes fixed on the twins. He was a bit weirded out by their behavior but they had never steered him wrong before. He trusted them more than he did anyone else in his life. More firmly, he said, "Yes, professor."

McGonagall lifted up an eyebrow in amusement at the joke she thought the trio were playing. Far be it from her to wreck their fun. She would just handle deducting the points later if things got destructive. "Very well. I take it you two wish to go first?"

Fred and George nodded.

Professor McGonagall waited for the hat to announce her lion house when Fred sat on the stool, but instead the hat yelled, "Slytherin!"

She felt her jaw drop as she hastily looked around for their prank. She saw none.

Among the students, no one but the first years applauded. The Slytherins were too busy weighing their future to consider it. A few very observant students noted a rather pained expression slip briefly across Professor Snape's face.

 _Oh, Morgana_ , Severus thought. _So it begins_.

Instead of walking to the Slytherin table, Fred merely stepped to the side and waited for his twin to be sorted with an obliging bow. George took a seat after giving his twin a deep, theatrical bow in return, bringing a few shaky laughs from the stunned students. Like his twin, George wasn't there long before "Slytherin!" was announced.

Fred and George went off to the side and waited for Lee, who was looking quite shocked at the outcome. Even still, they didn't have to wait long. Lee and the hat seemed to have a brief argument before he, too, was made a "Slytherin!"

The three went and sat at the Slytherin table among a disbelieving silence.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, expertly burying her shock for later. "Next to be sorted, step forward please."

Percy walked forward and, if possible, the silence became _even more_ severe.

"You are aware, Mr. Weasley, that by doing this you give up you prefect badge?" McGonagall asked.

Percy took the prefect badge off his uniform and all but sneered, "It was never worth it anyway." The words were delivered with the same acidic quality as once might have when telling someone to _fuck right off._

He all but threw the badge at her as he sat to be resorted. "Slytherin!" Was called after even less time than Fred had taken.

Percy walked proudly to the Slytherin table and sat next to Adrian Pucey, who couldn't seem to keep a pleased grin off his face.

Oliver Wood did his best to keep his face polite when McGonagall turned to address him. "Mr. Wood, are you giving up your captaincy?"

As one, the hall seemed to hold its breath.

He nodded and sat down on the stool, "There are more important things than being captain."

There was an echoing gasp, but as many people would later point out, Oliver _hadn't_ said that there were more important things than Quidditch. As such, the world probably _wouldn't_ implode within the next five minutes. Probably.

"Slytherin!" The hat called. Oliver turned and gave his captain's badge to McGonagall before moving to sit next to Marcus Flint at the Slytherin table. The Slytherin Quidditch team, sitting loosely around their captain, could barely contain their excitement. Oliver was by far the best Keeper in the school. The House Cup was theirs before November had even arrived.

Marcus Flint leaned over to whisper in his once-and-future husband's ear, "Who would've thought? Oliver Wood, willing to play under my rule…"

"We'll see." Oliver rolled his eyes. He blushed when he felt Marcus's hand on his upper thigh.

As the hall dissolved into a roiling mess of gossip, Ron looked at the brother closest to him and smiled. "Happy to be back?"

Percy Weasley gave a vicious smirk, looking moments away from a joyful cackle. "I am absolutely _exploding_ with excitement."

* * *

 **I was in such a great mood after answering my amazing reviewers that I decided to stay up and get this out to you guys! Originally, this and the next chapter were one big piece but I decided cutting it up was better. I hope you guys agree! Quite a few changes were made here and there so I hope everyone likes them** **. Mostly, they're being made to slow the plot down a bit so I can fit in some slower moments and make events a little more believable. As always, feel free to ask questions if you'd like something cleared up! Also, this chapter has also been recently edited (8/16/2017) for the sake of the timeline/plot/my peace of mind so I hope those of you who noticed enjoyed those slight alterations as well.**

 **Thanks to everyone who reviewed! You people are the reason I write!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**

 **PS: The original author paraphrased a lot of this chapter from the books. I've tried to change that but if you see something you recognize, that's why.**


	4. Pleased to Meet You

**Warning: Fairly detailed mention of child death during Draco's part.**

Parvati looked down at her empty gold plate. She had only just realized how hungry she was. The pumpkin pasties and chocolate frogs seemed ages ago.

She turned her attention to the high table as Albus Dumbledore got to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there – but the smile just didn't reach his eyes.

"Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!" he sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Parvati didn't know whether to laugh or not.

Undecided, she smirked instead and turned to the nearest older Slytherin student. For her, that was the pretty brunette to her left. "Tell me he's not considered 'right' in the head around here."

"Only enough to teach school children," the girl laughed daintily. She offered Parvati her hand. "Elianna Rosier, pureblood, third-year."

Parvati smiled innocently, "Parvati Patil."

"Cut the act," Elianna rolled her eyes, "You stopped being able to pull the innocent look when you got the green trim."

Parvati dropped the smile, "…Does that include in front of parents?"

Elianna shook her head, "If you were a boy, yes, but since you're a girl— does your father treat you like a princess?"

Parvati twirled her hair, thinking—or, rather, remembering. As a little girl, her father had always treated her while her mother had pursed her lips behind him, disapproving. He had always been her biggest supporter. He had bragged endlessly about how Parvati had inherited her intelligent dark eyes from him, how Parvati was such a graceful dancer, of how Parvati would obviously follow in his footsteps and become a cunning Slytherin. He hadn't even changed his tune when she was sorted into Gryffindor. Instead, he had begun to brag about how brave Parvati was, of how Parvati had always stepped up to a challenge, of how Parvati could probably stare down Lucius Malfoy, her father's most important - and notorious - client. Comparatively, Padma had always been closer to their mother. Padma had been the soft, bookish one, like their mother. Not bad attributes; in fact, they suited Marjorie Patil, an accomplished children's healer at St. Mungo's. However, Bhari Patil hadn't quite been able to find common ground with Padma. He had naturally turned to favor Parvati, who he'd had more in common with.

Parvati could still recall the summer before her (first) first-year. After taking them shopping for their supplies, Bhari Patil had decided to test his unknowing daughters. He had called Padma to his office, alone, and told her that he was making a marriage contract for her. Padma had looked down and resigned herself. When he had pushed, Padma had continued to demure until Bhari had come clean that it was merely a test.

Padma had slumped with relief and scurried away. Bhari had hid his disappointment and called Parvati in. He had acted out the same situation with Parvati. Immediately, Parvati had proceeded to try and convince him of how awful the idea was. When Parvati had run out of reasons and Bahari had still appeared to remain set on the contract, Parvati had tried to escape. Her father had disarmed her and, hiding his proud smile, told her that if she wanted to remain in the family, she would do what was expected of her.

Parvati had looked him in the eye and hissed, "Disown me, then." Bhari had never felt so proud in his life, he had told her while hugging her terribly confused self. From then on, Parvati had been spoiled absolutely _rotten_.

As the years had progressed, Bhari had ensured that Parvati did everything to the best of her ability. Her summers had been taken over by tutors and dueling instructors, and internships at her father's law firm, Avery & Patil. Because her summers had been so serious, school had almost become a break. So, Parvati had giggled and laughed and didn't much minded when teachers had scolded her because her work had always been top-notch. By forth year her father had already hinted heavily that she would have a place at the firm by graduation.

Her father had tried to have Padma to do the same but Padma had a passive personality. She had always felt most comfortable doing desk work and had most often been found in the accounting sector. Her self-seclusion had become even worse when their mother was killed in a Death Eater raid in sixth year. Where Parvati and her father had mourned and moved on, Padma had begun to throw herself whole-heartedly into working for the Light. By the time Parvati had proved her worth by helping her father clear Lucius Malfoy's name after the Final Battle, Padma had been working as the prime secretary for Hermione Granger.

In Parvati's old life, Padma had killed their father in fit of rage. Padma had discovered that Bhari Patil was one of the big names working to protect Lucius Malfoy's werewolf son and husband after his assassination on the Ministry steps. So infuriated by his " _treachery,"_ Padma had stormed outside and cast a _bombarda maxima_ strong enough to bring down the entire building. Every witch and wizard inside had died. Parvati, who had been at the Ministry Hall of Record doing research for that very case, had lived just long enough to see Padma lauded for her "public service." She had been assassinated by a team of hit wizards a week later. Her sister had been with them and waited for the ten more experienced assassins to subdue her before slitting Parvati's throat herself. Her last memory was Padma's smug face as she had twirled Parvati's Patil-crest necklace between her bloody fingers. After losing her father, the last person she had thought herself able to depend on, death had nearly been a relief. However, knowing that Padma had lived without penance had obviously kept her spirit from a peaceful sleep.

Parvati felt sick at the memories but was careful not to show it. She gave Elianna a small smile. "More like a princess wielding a sword."

Elianna nodded dismissively and turned back to her dinner. "If your father spoiled you before, you'll still have him wrapped around your finger," she offered offhandedly.

Parvati grinned to herself. _Even more so_ , she thought, _now that I am following in his footsteps_.

* * *

Percy was laughing for what felt like the first time in his life. Graham Montague was a hilarious person, he thought as he caught his breath. How in five years of shared schooling did he miss that? As Graham started up another rambling story, Percy couldn't help but think about how _happy_ he was to be back – even if Cho hadn't come along as well. His eyes drifted over to the Ravenclaw table and his smile slipped away. Sitting there, talking happily to Penelope Clearwater, was a bright, innocent young girl. His wife was gone, quite possibly for good if he and the others succeeded in changing the future. Looking around at the influx of green trim, Percy couldn't deny that they already had. This Cho would never be his Cho. Percy knew that she would be better off for that.

Tearing his eyes from her, Percy gave a brief moment to the loneliness and sadness her innocence had left him with. However, her future with him had been nothing to hope for. To start, they hadn't even married out of love. Rather, they had been two close friends who had felt pressured to marry. The Changs were a pureblood family who followed tradition while Percy had thrown himself into that world. For both of them to leave Hogwarts without a contract was odd. However, Cho hadn't had an interest in anyone since Cedric and while Percy had maintained a relationship with Penelope Clearwater, he had broken off with her when it became clear that she wanted more of him than he had of her. Cho's parents had threatened an arrangement and Percy had wanted the stability. So they had married each other out of pure convenience. They had been more like flat mates – or, towards the end, siblings-in-arms – than husband and wife. It was that relationship Percy grieved for and if bearing that strange grief meant a happier life for her, then Percy was content with it.

The appearance of the feast distracted Percy from his melancholy. _Damn_ , Percy thought. He had forgotten how fantastic the food at Hogwarts was. Percy was talented at many things but cooking was not one. Outside of Ministry functions and political forays, this was easily the best spread he had seen since leaving the Burrow. Resisting the urge to just nab something and shove it down - as was the usual method when one lived with very many siblings and not so many manners - Percy called upon his knowledge of pureblood etiquette. He was a self-study, having figured that he would need to know the rules if he wanted to succeed in the Ministry. However, Percy had never had an ill comment directed his way and he had done lunch with some of the snottiest names in the business. Percy had even become knowledgeable enough that when the Light Purges had begun to push some uncomfortable questions about morality and magic to the forefront he had found himself one of the people elected to define what pureblood tradition really meant. The other had been Draco Malfoy, and Merlin, hadn't that been an interesting friendship to make. In the end, their pro-tradition advocacy had gotten them both into hot water. Percy had been demoted in the Ministry and Draco had left to do his potions mastery in Italy. Yet, they had still had fun. Even if forcing the lessons on to Percy's brothers had been rather like water cutting into stone: slow going, if none the less effective.

Percy was pulled from his reminiscing by the tingling feeling of being watched. When he turned, it was to find Adrian Pucey smiling at him.

"I heard that all the Weasleys ate like pigs," Pucey said and Percy cocked an eyebrow at him. Pucey hastened to add, "But looking at you and your brothers," he gestured to the assorted Weasleys, who were all behaving just as Percy and Draco had beaten into them, "I'd say that you all took etiquette lessons –"

"We did." Percy cut him off, if only to keep Pucey from working around to a backhanded insult – if that were his aim at all. To Percy, Pucey looked as though he were just barely restraining a blush.

Around him, the other Slytherins all took on a look of intrigue. Belatedly, Percy wished he had kept his mouth shut. It looked like he would have to put his skills at politics to the test rather earlier than he would have liked.

Graham leaned forward, face suddenly serious. "I thought the Weasleys didn't care much for the Old Ways?"

As the oldest Weasley at the table, Percy decided that it was time to start making a different name for his family. According to the emergency letter he had received from his father, the Weasleys would be out of Dumbledore's thumb by next Monday and Molly's by the weekend. His father had sounded frazzled even on paper but he had mentioned Bill, Charlie, and Lucius Malfoy enough that Percy had faith that the plan was a good one. It couldn't hurt to get an early start on the social aspect of that.

Percy looked pointedly away, as though he were trying to conceal a secret. The Slytherins around the table leaned in eagerly. Percy looked down as he noted their stares, just as he had as an actual fifth year when he was embarrassed. "Dad's changed his tune. He decided that it was high time for us to learn and embrace the Old Ways."

Adrien Pucey and Graham Montague both looked inordinately pleased by this, as did the rest of the Slytherins eavesdropping from both ends of the table. The Slytherins nearest Fred, George, Ron, and Percy eyed them with new interest. The Weasleys were an old pureblood family with absolutely no inbreeding who had never produced a squib. The latest generation also carried the Honorable and Prestigious House of Prewett in their bloodline. The only reason most Slytherin families stayed away from the Weasleys was their Light tendencies, which went hand-in-hand with a disregard for tradition. Now that this was, apparently, changing…well, you didn't need a mastery in arithmancey to do the math there.

To sweeten the deal, there were _seven_ _unmarried_ _Weasleys_!

"What about marriage contracts?" Terence Higgs questioned. Percy recognized him vaguely as a third-year. "They've always been a touchy subject for Light families. How does your father feel about those?"

Percy tilted his head, thinking. Adrien and Graham, who had both been nursing a crush on the unattainable overachiever with varying degrees of success since he was made to tutor them in second year Charms, smiled at him. Until they caught the other smiling at Percy, that is, and then the smiles turned quickly into glares directed at each other.

"My dad would never force us into a marriage," Percy answered after a moment. That to do such was illegal went unspoken – 'illegal' had varying definitions in Dark circles. "But he would agree to a marriage contract if both participants were willing."

Higgs nodded. "So if the Higgs Head of House offered a marriage contract to the Weasley Head of House – between Fred and I, for example – your father would only agree if Fred and I didn't mind?"

Percy wasn't aware of this but the entirety of Slytherin who did not share his blood, second-year and up, was listening for what he would say next. If his answer was positive, you could bet a good number of students would be writing home to their parents to make _offers_.

"Well, there would be some questions our father would ask us and likely any suitors, too," Percy started to explain. "But they would be the same questions that would be asked if we were getting married without a contract. If the answers were satisfactory, I imagine my father would agree to the contract."

Pucey beamed at him, or at least smiled as much as a Slytherin in public ever would. "Our fathers work together every now and then – they quite like each other, you know – they're friends even, I'd say."

Percy nodded cautiously before deciding to take Pucey's earlier comment as a bad choice of words. After all, he had tutored Adrien once and he had been polite – even kind – then. "Dad has said a few times that Tiberius Pucey is a great man to work with. They've gone out for drinks more than a few times, so I think they are friends, but I wouldn't know for sure."

Graham glared hard at Adrien, his long-time friend and now rival in love. He wouldn't lose, he swore, and resisted a growl upon seeing the same resolve in Adrien's eyes.

Percy, for his part, was rather more concerned with acquiring another serving of potatoes than anything else. He would kick himself for that later, but then hind-sight was magic's clearest prophecy.

* * *

"Oh, Draco, I just love your hair," Pansy cooed, batting her lashes at him as though she were trying to flick them off her face.

Draco sighed under his breath and resisted slumping in his seat. Pansy was already flirting with him. If he was to survive the next seven years, he would have to get his father to settle a marriage contract with the Zabini family soon. Nothing but that would ever dissuade her, he knew from experience.

The Bloody Baron flew and landed in front of Pansy, saving Draco from anymore of her inanity, and turned so that he could address all the first years. "Slytherin has earned the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup six years in a row. I sincerely hope the newest generation of Slytherin will not lose it for us just when we are about to set a Hogwart's record."

Draco nodded, having already heard this speech the last time around. He had also heard the dressing down they had received upon losing the Cup and he shuddered to remember it. Besides, he had more important things to focus on, like if his parents had made it back, and when he would be able to see his baby brother, Teddy, alive again. _If_ he would ever get to see Teddy alive again, even.

Draco closed his eyes briefly. He could still remember cutting Teddy's corpse down. He had been forced to leave his mother's body behind but he knew that she would have understood. Even if she hadn't deserved her end, a child shouldn't be left to hang and she had loved Teddy like her own. The guilt he carried was his punishment for not being fast enough to save them in the first place. His chest constricted, vision filing with the Malfoy mausoleum painted silvery with moonlight. He saw Teddy's tiny body lying in the crypt, the only place it wouldn't be desecrated in their new, mad world of extreme Light. The bodies he had left behind creaked, jostled by the wind –

Blaise's hand squeezed his under the table, drawing him back to this new reality. "Respirare, il mio amore." Draco gave him a brief, raw smile before letting his previous blankness wash over his face.

He would send a letter to his father that night, Draco decided. Among his typical first year babble he would hide hints to the future and wait to see how his parents reacted. If they dropped hints back, he would know that were returned. Everything else could wait until they had a chance for a face-to-face meeting.

Feeling more settled than he had since his memories had returned, Draco hid a sigh of relief behind a polite yawn. He just needed to keep it together, Draco thought, the mantra as familiar as his wand. Just keep it together.

He let his thumb brush over Blaise's hand, soft and smooth against his skin. With Blaise, he might even manage it.

()()()()()

As the last few bites of dinner disappeared, desserts appeared across the Slytherin table in a seemingly effortless wave. Susan grinned, as joyful as she had been as a real first year. Nice to see that her sweet tooth was still where it had always been, she thought with glee. As Susan helped herself to a treacle tart, the talk turned to their families.

"I'm half-and-half," said Seamus, as though he were just another first-year. "Dad's a Muggle - he was clueless about my Mum until they were married." Seamus grinned, "Hell of a shock for him."

Susan probably would have said it just as proudly if she were in Seamus's shoes. Though, sitting at the Slytherin table, it would have made the other kids sneer if Seamus hadn't had such a dark look in his eyes. Such looks were very effective in Slytherin, she was learning. Harry Potter's fighters were inordinately adept at them, too. They were not to be taken lightly even if he had started out training them in Dumbledore's Army.

"What about you, Neville?" Ron asked, pulling Susan from her thoughts. She bit back a snort. As if Ron hadn't known for ages – as if they all didn't know. 'Longbottom' wasn't exactly a common name or a powerless family, after all.

"Well, my Gran brought me up and she's a witch," Neville said cheerily. He then gave a heart-wrenching story that had Susan tucking a gaping mouth behind her hand. Dear Merlin, she thought. What Neville was saying simply had to be abuse – child endangerment, at the very least. He obviously didn't recognize it as such, though. In fact, he smiled merrily through the whole tale, oblivious to the tension that ran through Ron and Harry – his lovers in their last life, Susan guessed. She must have died before _that_ happened. In any case, even some of the Slytherins looked to be biting back horror at Neville's words.

Susan's first thought was to contact her Aunt immediately. Her instincts – instincts honed in St. Mungo's emergency ward – screamed abuse. When you had an abused child, you called the authorities. Whether he was a whatever-year-old mentally or not, he was still eleven _now._ The part of Susan that had already grown up and become a healer kicked her for not noticing the first time around. Looking around the hall, Susan wondered how many other children were at risk. Harry was one that popped instantly to mind. There had always been rumours but Susan hadn't been one to listen to those, back then. Now, looking at Harry with a trauma-healer's eyes, his stick-thin, tiny frame was an obvious clue that something wasn't right.

Already, Susan knew that she would be writing one letter to her aunt on Harry's behalf. No one with her number of years as an emergency trauma healer could miss the significant looks Harry kept shooting between Susan and Ron's robe pocket, where a fat grey rat usually slept. Susan remembered clearly that scandal. Regardless if Amelia Bones was returned, she would still come if Susan confessed that she feared a classmate's pet was a hidden Animagus. There had been a case just like that in 1978.

Susan shot a small smile at Harry and immediately his shoulders dropped like she had taken a huge weight from him. _Yes,_ Susan thought, taking a bite of her tart. _I'll be up late writing letters tonight._

At last, the desserts too disappeared and Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent.

"Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered."

"That makes it sound like we're horses," Susan said quietly, making Daphne laugh.

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins as he gave his warning about abiding rules, as though changing houses meant nothing to him. The _liar_ , Susan thought. Anyone who looked could tell that his warmth was faked. When Dumbledore tagged on the bit about the third floor Susan rolled her eyes, as did all the others who had come back. She highly doubted Harry would be falling for Dumbledore's obvious little test this time around.

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Susan noticed amusedly that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed. With a flick of Dumbledore's wand the words appeared in the air and then they were off, ear-splitting and on-tune and off-key, depending on the person. The Weasley Twins had gone with a not-half bad funeral dirge tune. When that concluded, they were finally freed.

The Slytherin first years and those newly resorted into Slytherin followed Adrian Pucey through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and down a marble staircase. Susan's legs were once again like lead – the Hufflepuff Common Room was on the other side of the castle – but now only because she was so tired and full of food. Still, when they finally came to the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room, there were sighs of relief all-around.

At least the Slytherins have an easier commute, Susan thought, pleased.

"Basilisk." Adrian Pucey gave the password. The hidden door swung open silently.

Walking into the Slytherin Common Room, Lavender whistled. It was the complete opposite of the Gryffindor Common Room. Huge, gothic windows took up much of the stone walls, showing an enchanting view of Black Lake below the surface. Bookshelves of ancient relics and tomes stood proud between the windows and a roaring fireplace dominated the far wall. Intimate collections of wingback chairs and tables were scattered around the room, though obviously the prime spot was just before the fireplace, where three imposing leather couches made a stance.

Money and power, Lavender thought. The place reeked of money and power.

She smiled. Just the place for a reporter.

Pucey directed the first years to a set of spiral stairs on the left side of the room. Rooms were apparently up a floor, where sunlight actually shone. Girls were to turn left, boys to the right. Up the spiraling staircase, the boys found their rooms first.

Like in Gryffindor, the rooms had five huge four-poster beds each, though these were set into alcoves that gave the illusion of more privacy. The windows, of which there were many, looked out onto a spectacular view of the lake and were hung with thick, green velvet drapes. Intricately woven carpets and tapestries covered the floor and walls and a heavy dark-wood desk sat opposite each bed. Ron allowed himself to be reluctantly impressed.

In the end, they had decided to room with their roommates from the last time around. This left Ron, Harry, Seamus, Neville, and Dean sharing one room, and Draco, Blaise, Theo, Crabbe, and Goyle sharing the other. In the girls' dorms, things were much the same. Lavender, Daphne, Parvati, and Susan roomed closest to the boys' corridor, while Tracy Davis, Pansy Parkinson, and Millicent Bulstrode took the farthest.

In the fifth year dorms, Percy' bed was conveniently between Adrian Pucey and Graham Montague's beds. Little did Percy realize, this new life was shaping up to be even more complicated than his last – just in an entirely different way.

* * *

Between those two floors, third-year Lee Jordan was wondering how _the hell_ he had ended up a Slytherin. Maybe he and the twins _had_ taken their pranks too far and this was just divine punishment. He looked down at his green pillow and black bedspread with a sigh. Yet, the _why_ of it didn't really matter anymore, did it? He was a Slytherin, as were his best friends – who had a lot of explaining to do. Lee could handle this.

"You know, it's not so bad," voiced Cassius Warrington from behind him.

Lee closed his eyes briefly, back still to Warrington. Or, perhaps, he couldn't handle this, as he was rooming with _his fucking crush_. Alone. Third year Slytherin had few enough students that they could spread across the three rooms. Just bloody wonderful, Lee thought crankily. Fred had ended up rooming with Terrance Higgs and George's roommate was Lucian Bole. Apparently, none of the third-year Slytherins trusted the three former-Gryffindors enough to let them room together – justifiably so, Lee allowed. Still, life was either being unfairly cruel or blessing him with his secret desire. Lee, a pragmatic person, was leaning toward cruel.

"Oh, really?" Lee rolled his eyes, turning over to face his new roommate. Don't show fear, he cautioned himself, just like with a real snake.

Warrington sat on the edge of Lee's bed, looking for all the world like he belonged there. Lee squashed the butterflies tickling his ribcage with a brutal efficiency.

"Yes, really." Warrington said, rolling the words teasingly. He wore just the touch of an easy grin. Lee felt zombie-butterflies rise with a _vengeance_. "In fact, it's the best thing that's ever happened to you, aside from learning about magic."

Lee scoffed. Purebloods; they always went and ruined their charm by opening their mouths. "And why's that?"

"Well, you're a muggleborn –" _There we go,_ Lee thought, grabbing his wand, "– hear me out!"

Lee crossed his arms but didn't put down his wand. He had been down this road before with pureblood assholes and no matter how lovely Warrington was, Lee wouldn't roll over for it. Still, he had to live with this guy… Lee doubted _Snape_ , of all professors, would let him change rooms over a little verbal abuse. He narrowed his eyes and gestured for Warrington to get on with it.

"As a muggleborn Slytherin, you are treated a lot better. You have three times as many doors open for you than you would have had if you were a 'Puff or a Ravenclaw or a Gryffindor." Lee glared at him, thinking. What could cause such a difference?

"Being a muggleborn Slytherin means you are no longer a mudblood. Though you are not a pureblood." Ah, it centered on the Wizarding World's own magical brand of racism, of course. Not like he hadn't dealt with a version of that all his life in the Muggle world or anything. Lee was too distracted by anger to notice how Warrington had continued to move closer to him. By the time he looked up, Cassius Warrington was staring down at him with a particularly pleased expression on his face.

Using the bravery that got him into Gryffindor, Lee stared directly into Warrington's eyes. "If I'm not a _mudblood_ , then what am I?" he sneered.

Cassius smiled brighter. "You're called a newblood, now. Someone who knows our culture and respects our practices."

He casually wrapped an arm around Lee, bringing him tightly to his chest. Lee's eyes widened in surprise. "Did you know," Cassius whispered, "That I have wanted you since we met on the train in our first year? I was so disappointed when you were sorted into Gryffindor."

Lee glared hard at that but inside his heart was racing. Cassius Warrington had felt the same way he did. Still, he wouldn't let himself be stupid. It didn't matter what Warrington felt if he was a damned blood supremacist. "What? That not good enough for you?"

Warrington gave him a flirty grin. Lee glared. Stupid beautiful asshole. "Don't be angry, pet," Cassius murmured. "If you were just another mudblood, my parents would have never agreed to me marrying you. But now that you are a Slytherin… my parents would definitely approve!" Cassius beamed.

"Let go!" Lee snapped. _Marriage_ , what the hell? This was the first conversation they had ever had and Lee was fuming over most of it. He tried to push away but Warrington was much taller and bulky from Quidditch.

Lee grit his teeth. Smug bastard had the gall to look _amused_. Little did he know, Lee was an inch to hexing his balls off. "You're insane, Warrington –"

"Call me Cassius, _Lee_." Warrington interrupted, dark eyes glittering. His voice was as smooth as silk, nearly preternatural. Lee felt a chill curl along his spine.

"Warrington – _Cassius_ ," It felt oddly intimate, using his first name, Lee thought. He must have said it a hundred times announcing matches but this was different. Personal. Lee swallowed. "We are only third years, we are too young." He gave the bastard his most awful look. "Plus, being in a different house hardly makes me less of a _mudblood_ , as you lot are so fond of calling me."

Cassius laughed. Full-on, head-tossed-back laughed. Through his shock, Lee couldn't help but think he looked much friendlier laughing. Warmer. However, that didn't dilute the cunning in his eyes when he looked at Lee next.

"In Slytherin, Lee, we have our future spouse picked out and the marriage contract signed by the end of second year." Cassius reached up to play idly with one of Lee's dreadlocks. "That means we are actually a bit late," he mused. "My parents will have to send out the marriage contract immediately for your guardians to sign."

Lee narrowed his eyes. There was so much wrong with that sentence Lee could only pick out the most obvious one. "My parents would never sign a marriage contract." Mostly because they were Muggle and thought those had died out in the seventeenth century, Lee thought. Like a reasonable person.

Cassius didn't lose his smile or stop playing with Lee's hair, though. It was a bit distracting, actually. The damn Slytherin probably knew it, too.

"That's the best news," Cassius said. "In the Hogwarts doctrine, any muggleborn sorted into Slytherin is automatically considered an orphan." At the blunt horror on Lee's face, Cassius hastened to explain.

"It's a holdover from the medieval days, when most muggleborn students were already orphaned. Usually it was because their parents didn't want a 'freak' or died protecting them during various trials, wars, and crusades. Light textbooks like to downplay that fact," Cassius said darkly. "Technically, the same goes for all houses, but Slytherin is the only one that really follows through anymore."

"By doing what, exactly?" Lee hedged. He had actually always thought it strange that the history books never mentioned any witches or wizards who had actually died in the trials. Lee had assumed that there were none but now that he thought of it many students looked particularly angry after leaving those classes. Cassius' explanation made sense.

"The Head of House looks for a Slytherin family willing to sponsor the muggleborn," Cassius explained. "That family ensures that the muggleborn receives classes on etiquette and history, has the money and supplies necessary to excel in society, and ensures they know how our world works. They also supply the muggleborn with a place to stay in the summers if they have no wish to return to their previous living conditions. That is why you are not a mudblood once you are in Slytherin," Cassius explained. "Because other magicals can safely assume that you know our culture and are part of our society. That you will not just be sticking around to learn some entertaining tricks before running roughshod over the world or worse, turning us over to the Muggles." Cassisus looked down. "That wasn't unknown to happen, back in the day. The Light just don't like to talk about it."

Lee was shocked. "I have never heard it explained like that."

Cassius huffed. "Yes, well. I doubt you have ever held a civil conversation with a Slytherin, either."

Lee shrugged, unrepentant. "I didn't know there were any willing to be civil to me."

Cassius' eyes darkened. He glanced away. "You have not been wrong in thinking so. There is much wrong with our world. In the past, even Slytherin's Head of House has been less than satisfactory. The consequences have been catastrophic," he finished quietly.

Lee frowned. What could Cassius be talking about –? _Never mind, you have more important things to worry about,_ Lee told himself. He took a breath. So Cassius wasn't actually an awful prick, just an attractive guy with a weird belief system. Who, apparently, returned Lee's feelings. Okay. Still, no matter how big of a crush he had on Cassius, marriage was still too much for the moment. And that was exactly what Lee told him.

Cassius made an affronted noise. "This is why history and etiquette classes are important," he sighed. "Lee, you are a Slytherin and a newblood – people will be fighting each other to lay a claim on you." Cassius must have seen the building fear on Lee's face because he pressed a soft kiss to the back of Lee's hand. Despite the conversation, Lee found it charming.

"If we had a contract," Cassius continued, "We would have time to get to know each other without other people interfering and making rumours. If we decided the relationship was not working, we could just rescind it." He looked up into Lee's eyes, for once unguarded by guile or sarcasm. Lee felt himself blush at the intensity in his gaze.

"Not that I think I would ever want to," Cassius whispered and then leaned in for - Lee realized abruptly - a kiss. Lee felt his _entire body_ go pink. Unable to make himself turn away, Lee mirrored him. They met in the middle and Lee thought, _Oh_. Cassius' lips were soft, warm, and undemanding - sweet. Way better than Alice James, who had almost sucked Lee's face off at the end-of-season Quidditch party last year. Lee had been so surprised he had knocked over his smuggled butterbear. He had been almost grateful, seeing as it had landed on her skirt, giving Lee just enough time to get away. He had spent the rest of the night avoiding her.

Cassius was different. He felt good - _really_ _good_. He was everywhere, strong but so gentle, warm and smelling faintly like leather. _He must wear cologne_ , Lee thought absurdly. They were fourteen; most boys Lee knew couldn't be bothered with run-of-the-mill deodorant. Why– _pureblood,_ duh. Infuriating buggers. Cassius put a hand on his face, sending another wisp of that smell at Lee, and Lee abruptly gave up thinking. He moaned, not even aware that was a sound he could make. Mercifully, that seemed to be some sort of signal. Cassius pulled away with a chuckle, leaving Lee with at least some brain left.

From somewhere, Lee managed to dredge up a smirk. "So, semi-fiancé. Does this mean I get a ring?"

Cassius rolled his eyes, giving Lee that warm smile again. He picked up Lee's left hand and kissed his ring finger. "We'll go pick one out on our next Hogsmead visit. Will that make you happy, dear?"

"Ecstatic," Lee murmured, pink again, and found he meant it.

* * *

 **Hello, all! I know this chapter is bloody huge but the way it's set up wouldn't let me change that. I hope you like it all the same. It's your guys' amazing responses that keep these chapters coming so quickly! This chapter has also been edited recently (8/17/2017) so I hope you like those changes!** **Tell me what you think! As always, I'm eager for questions and comments! Hope to hear from you soon~**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	5. It's Not Fair (Yes, It Is)

The next day, whispers followed Harry from the moment he left the Slytherin dormitory. He had almost forgotten what it was like outside of Slytherin, where people weren't too concerned about their own image to be caught gawking at him. Outside the dorms, people lined up outside classrooms and stood on tiptoe to get a look at him or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. Harry sighed. If there was one part of his life he wished the phenomenon that had brought them back here could have skipped, it was the constant staring.

Casting a glance at Ron, Harry had to resist sighing again. Really, his future-husband was being ridiculous, snorting and grumbling like one of Charlie's dragons. Harry had survived maniacs and monsters of all sorts. School children really held no candle to that. Reaching across the way, Harry put a hand forward and delivered a swift flick to Ron's nose.

"If you want to maintain your place in the hierarchy," _and my good graces_ , Harry didn't need to add, "You'd best get ahold of yourself."

Ron growled but schooled his features, pointedly ignoring Neville's snickers. He was a Slytherin and not only that, he was shaping up to be Draco's second-hand. Draco, of course, had already secured his place as Prince of the First-Years' Court. His legacy and political guile (he had managed to bring the _Boy Who Lived_ to Slytherin, hadn't he?) had made sure of that. Susan Bones had snared a position as well, as Princess, much to Pansy Parkinson's dismay. No amount of Parkinson's flattery and rumor trapping could usurp Susan's sheer brutality, after all. She had already cursed a sixth year in the defense of her court. According to the rumor mill, the idiot was still in the Hospital Wing.

Draco had selected Ron as a second for reasons unknown to those outside their group. Amongst themselves, they knew that Ron had the most strategic mind and the bravery to follow through. He made a nice match for Draco's opportunistic nature and polished confidence. Hammer and scalpel, Harry thought. In addition, once Ron took the Prewett lordship, no one would dare question his leadership. It would also give their court the credentials to begin usurping the older years. Not that Draco, Susan, and Ron hadn't already started.

Harry felt vaguely ill at the thought. He was a solider, an auror, and a protector. He didn't like creeping about in the shadows, messing up peoples' lives with papers and pens. That was why he hadn't run for office after killing Voldemort. Too much dishonest backstabbing. Harry felt much more comfortable Avada'ing someone in the face than signing for their assassination. It was just how he was wired. However, Harry did understand battle tactics. If his morals had to be sacrificed to win the war, then he would be just as venomous as any other snake.

The hat had wanted to put him here first, after all. It was time he began to act like it.

The group of vengeful first years walked toward the Great Hall for breakfast as though prepared for war. They paused for a moment, just inside the doors, allowing the hall to notice them. They spoke quietly to one another casually, as though the sudden silence were beneath their notice. Leading the cohort was Draco Malfoy, flanked by Ronald Weasley and Susan Bones. Half a step behind Draco, Harry Potter walked with Neville Longbottom, flanked by Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott. Daphne Greengrass, Parvati Patil, Seamus Finnigan, and Dean Thomas brought up the rear.

It wasn't long before they had the attention of the hall, if not for the execution of their entrance, than for their state of dress. Yes, they were in their uniforms, technically – but only just technically.

The girls all wore their hair free, accented by vibrant green ribbons. Susan's red fringe was held to the side by an emerald bow and Parvati's long hair was studded with tiny, ribbon-woven braids. Daphne had two small braids meeting at the back, held by fluttering ribbon and Lavender's locks fell in a riot of curls, with two pinned-in green bows on either side. They all wore the pleated black skirt, sweater vest, blouse, and robes, but their stockings were either bright emerald or silvery grey. Pinned to their lapels were buttons designed for their personalities.

Susan grinned at hers as the picture changed from a cute little snake doodle to a hissing python. 'Cute but psycho,' sprawled itself across the pin, 'things even out like that!' 'I'll be nicer when you're smarter…' Scrawled lazily across Parvati's, while Daphne's declared, 'I had a dream where something ate you.' Lavender's simply proclaimed, 'Free criticism.'

Daphne grinned to herself as she saw the hall's reaction to her plan. She had known it would show that they were a united front to their peers, one without any nasty infighting to exploit. A very important point to make with the politics of Slytherin to consider. Daphne had even gone so far as making the boys fall in line with her plan.

Thinking to dress the boys in solid black was a stroke of genius, she thought. Draco stood out like a study in chiaroscuro art, while Ron's red hair popped shockingly. Blaise she could put in anything and be amazed, but he personified dark beauty in all black. Seamus and Dean all but prowled in the dark clothing, wearing it much as they had their battle robes. By comparison, Theo was the picture of pureblood nobility. Black seemed to bring out the foreboding in Neville's eyes and the posture of a young pureblood lord with that. Harry, though, easily looked the cruelest. His eyes reminded her of the Killing Curse and he held himself much as he had in their old lives: a rebel general who had killed the Darkest Lord of the Age.

The buttons just would have cheapened the raw _danger_ of them, Daphne had decided. The girls had needed a measure of whimsy. Something flirty and a little unhinged. In a world of put-together ladies with knives playing vapid in order to stab you properly, the only way to be different was to bring the knives bluntly to the forefront. The boys, though… they had needed to look sharp. It would be the only way to break them of their previous reputations.

The only fun allowance Daphne made herself was the hair. At three in the morning, when even Filtch slept, she had dragged the sleepy boys out of bed and spirted them to the third floor bathroom. Now, lowlights of emerald green shimmered in Harry's freshly trimmed locks, dragging his eyes to the forefront and making him look a little less like a buzz-kill. Daphne had used lengthening charms to bring Ron's red hair to his shoulders, killing the dorky home cut he'd had, and layered it to frame his face. Dean and Seamus had both insisted on having color, so Daphne had gone with forest green and silver streaks, respectively. With Neville, she had streaked his fringe with black, side swept it, and gotten rid of that awful bowl cut with a close-crop. Blaise, Draco, and Theo, Merlin bless them, already knew how to wear their hair, so she had merely talked them into a little color. Silver for Draco, forest green for Blaise, and black for Theo. She had also banished Draco's gel, which had made them all laugh.

Looking around at the gobsmacked Great Hall, Daphne knew she had done right. She was exhausted but content. The knowledge that this style of dress was deeply popular in their time was reassuring, too. By next Monday, she felt confident that not only would her court be leading most of Slytherin, but be the 'cool kids' of Hogwarts, too.

Tilting her chin, Daphne took a deep breath and put on her coldest face. She felt a smirk forming. It was time to let the rabble admire her work and go green with envy.

She could barely wait.

They seemed to move as one, synchronized like soldiers at arms. There were murmurs as these first-years walked through the Great Hall. A few students even kneeled in their seats to get a better look at them.

At the Slytherin table, Draco, Ron, and Susan guided their court to the section the fourth-year court usually presided over. Harry followed suit, head high and eyes deadly, and soon the rest had settled, too. The way that they acted so carelessly, so confidently, was an open challenge to any who tried to refute them.

The fourth year court, consisting of several people no one really cared much about, were currently dealing with Peeves and stink bombs. Safe to say, there would be no challengers once _that_ got around.

This move made it quite clear to the older Slytherins who the powerhouses were among the first years. This court, they could see, was not to be messed with. Those defeated by them would be done so cruelly and sent straight to the bottom of the social ladder. Unless such a victim suddenly became the Dark Lord's heir, or Lucius Malfoy claimed to be their father and wanted sole custody, there would be no helping them.

As one, the elder courts of Slytherin decided they had more interesting – that is to say, _less lethal_ – things to tarry with.

"So, Ron. Have you wrote to your parents yet and told them the news?" Susan asked, playing the role of first-year.

"News?" Ron feigned confusion. "What news?"

Draco gave him a vaguely amused look, "That you are in Slytherin, perhaps?"

"Oh." Ron yawned. "I wrote that this morning."

A few Slytherins appeared impressed. Not many thought that Ron would be so nonchalant about breaking centuries of tradition. This was the point at which many began to reassess his usefulness.

"You're not afraid of their reactions?" Neville posed, hiding a smile behind his hand.

The Ron shook his head and grinned winningly. "Dad has nothing against Slytherins."

"What about your mum?" Harry teased.

Ron snickered. "Now _that_ reaction's going to be hilarious."

"This is way too early to be getting up," Dean grumbled and reached for the salt, which would have gone into his tea if Seamus hadn't quickly switched it for the sugar. Dean gave him a thankful smile.

Seamus smiled back, though beyond appearances it was a touch sad. How weird, he thought, looking around, that none of them seemed to notice how _weird_ this was.

Absently, he wrapped his hand around Dean's, as though that might anchor him while his thoughts drifted. In a different reality, most of them had lost contact with each other after Hogwarts. It was only once the Light Purges kicked up that they had all come together. Their first time in Hogwarts, they never would have been sharing breakfast like this. How _absolutely weird_ that only in murder and death would they find out that they clicked so well together simply as friends, not just comrades.

That didn't matter much, though, Seamus guessed. It was blood that drew you together, in the end. He supposed it didn't much matter who it belonged to or whether it pulsed in veins or was spilled on floors.

Watching from afar, on the side where first years were _supposed_ to sit, was Pansy Parkinson. In her eyes, this reality just wasn't fair at all. How on earth could the ranking _already_ be decided? The Sorting was just last night! Furthermore, they were barely into the first day!

Pansy growled. Why hadn't her parents _warned_ her that the hierarchy was decided so quickly? That she should start making connections with her first step on the train? Now she would have to make way for _Susan Bones_. How could Susan Bones be first-year Princess? That was supposed to be Pansy's spot! And she couldn't even do anything about it. After the show last night with that sixth year, no one with a brain would challenge Susan. No, being held a Slytherin Princess was out of Pansy's reach, and if that was out of her reach, then so was the coveted title of Medusa: Queen of Slytherin.

What made matters worse, the other girls seemed okay, even _pleased,_ with this. As though it were a preordained _fact_! That just didn't happen! Her mother had told her that girls fought tooth, nail, hex, and curse to get the top ranking. But this…

Pansy screamed internally. _Life just wasn't fair!_

Millicent Bulstrode walked into the Great Hall unnoticed. She was a plump girl, with what people thought of as mean expression on her face. In reality, like most Slytherins, she just wasn't smiling. As she approached the Slytherin table, she wondered where she should sit.

There was an empty spot with Pansy, who Millicent had already heard teasing her behind her back, or… she could try to sit with Susan and her friends. The thought made Millicent deeply nervous, even if her face didn't show it. Millicent didn't care about who was popular or not; she just wanted more than one friend. Susan's lot had already made so many power-moves, though. Would they even accept her?

She thought back to how she had spent last night, listening in the dark as Pansy and Tracy Davis whispered about her where they thought she couldn't hear. No, Millicent decided, she couldn't try to be friends with them. Just the idea made her want to puke. That left Susan and her friends, then. Steeling herself, Millicent walked forward. As she got closer, she fought the urge to turn tail and run. Would they mock her, she wondered? Openly laugh at her? She wasn't sure she could keep herself from decking them, if that happened. Her father had always said that she had an issue with violence. He blamed the collection of muggle video games she had blackmailed him into buying for her when she was eight.

Biting her lip, Millicent walked up behind the girl with the little green bows in her hair.

A second passed before anyone noticed the girl standing either behind or in front of them. Draco, Ron, and Susan eyed her speculatively, as did most of the rest of Slytherin. Merlin knew, not many of them would have had the guts to approach the new first years after their recent display.

Dean raised an eyebrow, having recognized her vaguely as the girl who would one day put Hermione Granger in a headlock. Millicent Bulstrode, wasn't it?

Millicent smiled nervously, "Can I sit with you?"

"Sure," Susan said, after meeting eyes briefly with her other court members. She gave a sweet smile. "Guys, make room."

Millicent resisted the urge to completely beam with joy and sat down next to one of the boys. Dean Tomas, she though? Did letting her sit with them mean she could call them by their first names? She had no idea. On her other side was Parvati Patil. That name had stuck as Millicent's mother worked at the same firm as Mr. Patil.

Steeling herself, she straightened her shoulders "I'm Millicent," Milli offered in what she hoped was an appropriately friendly voice. "Or Milli," she amended. "Preferably Milli."

Harry Potter chuckled and introduced himself. Everyone else followed.

Millicent Bulstrode… from what Harry could remember, she had been killed shortly after the War. She had worked private security for Lucius Malfoy and been shot down trying to defend Remus from the hunters. Harry cleared his throat to force away the memories. "So," he started, "Milli, excited about first classes?"

The conversation turned to each first-year bragging about what they already knew, just like normal first-years would, and then about their likes and hobbies. Ron was ecstatic to find out that Milli loved the Chudly Cannons and eagerly began a conversation about them with her.

After that, the week went on pretty much the same as it had the first time around. They had to study the night skies through their telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different stars and the movements of the planets. Three times a week they went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study herbology with Professor Sprout. Easily the most boring class was still history. Unsurprising, that. History of Magic probably hadn't even changed in the original timeline – it was taught by a ghost, after all. The only interesting bit was listening to Milli's surprisingly sarcastic comments. Apparently, she was something of a history buff and knew a whole whack of hilarious facts about various rulers. That or she was a fabulous liar. No one was very sure yet.

Professor Flitwick, at the start of their first class, jumped when he reached Harry's name on the roll call once more. However, by the end of his class, he addressed the vengeful first years about how he believed they had quite the natural talent for Charms. He also invited them to join a more advanced class – either the second or third, he hadn't decided which was best yet.

Professor McGonagall was different but the same as ever. She was still strict and clever, and she gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class. Yet, now she just seemed like a spoiled child worried about not getting her way.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. The class was all very impressed or faked being so. However, much of that enthusiasm was curbed when McGonagall began writing long complicated notes on the board.

"You would not have been able to do such an advanced form of magic. No one ever has." McGonagall said primly before continuing to write notes.

Parvati raised her hand. "I was wondering if, before we began the lesson, we would have a chance to show you how much we already know?" Parvati glanced at her sister, Padma, out of the corner of her eye. It was time for a little payback.

Hermione Granger looked positively rapturous at the thought. She was there with the first-year Ravenclaws because there were no other Gryffindor first-years.

"I don't think that is –"

"Oh, please, Professor!" Hermione squeaked happily. "I have been studying all summer and I really want you to see what I can do."

McGonagall smiled at the overzealous girl, remembering how she had once been much like that herself. Plus, Hermione was a Gryffindor! If anyone needed a student to rub in Severus' face, it was McGonagall. He had been bragging about getting Harry Potter, Susan Bones, and _all_ of the Weasleys into his House since they were sorted. Severus had even gone as far as to say that, "If Harry Potter is in Slytherin, there can't be an ounce of his father in him."

Smug bastard, she thought. If she had thought it would have done any good, she would have had Mr. Potter resorted right there and then.

"Very well," she said imperiously. "Students, stand and move to the left side of the classroom." The students quickly followed her command. McGonagall sent the desks to the right side of the classroom and then walked behind her desk fro which she pulled a box of bricks from an expanded drawer. She set one on her desktop. "You all will stand in a line and, house by house, attempt to turn this brick into a stuffed-animal. Do not – I repeat, _do not_ – feel bad about yourself should you not be able to accomplish this task. This is what the third-years are learning."

Professor McGonagall turned to the brick and performed the spell needed to transfigure the brick into a stuffed animal. "Ravenclaws first!" She declared.

The best the Ravenclaws could do was get the brick to sprout fur and one accidentally made it float.

Then it was Hermione Granger's turn, who, before beginning, had McGonagall show the entire class _again_ the wand-movements and the spell. Much to McGonagall's pleasure, the brick became softer and plushier after she was done. Hermione beamed with joy when she was praised and awarded five points.

Last but hardly least, it was the Slytherins' turn. To save time, the first year Slytherins stood in line, side by side, in front of the desks with a brick in front of each of them. Pansy failed miserably, as did Crabbe and Goyle, while Tracy Davis managed to make the brick grow fur. Milli got the brick to sprout stuffed-animal wings and was awarded five points for it.

Ron, Harry, and Neville went first of the vengeful first-years. The three pointed their wands at each of their own bricks and, one by one, shouted: "Lutanis Fanfarous!" By the end of the spell, in the bricks' place sat three toys: a blue dragon, a grey wolf, and a purple fox.

McGonagall's jaw dropped. She instantly appeared next to the three. "Mr. Potter, Mr. Longbottom, Mr. Weasley; please move back while I examine your transfiguration."

They did as they were told. McGonagall prodded the stuffed animals with her wand and when she was done, she turned around and beamed at them. "Twenty-five points to Slytherin! For a remarkable job, indeed." Hermione Granger huffed in the background.

Draco, Dean, and Theo went next. With a shout of the spell, there were no longer bricks on the table. Instead, a gold centaur, a green spider (you could hear Ron shout "Oi!" in the background), and a black Cerberus stood in their place. Professor McGonagall tested the stuffed animals again and again awarded Slytherin twenty-five points.

The pattern continued with Seamus, Blaise, and Parvati, who produced a yellow koala bear, a blue tiger, and a silver Pegasus. They were rewarded with another twenty-five points.

Parvati shot her twin a superior look. Padma scowled back at her.

Lavender, Daphne, and Susan finished off the Slytherins' show with a pink lion, a lilac Sphinx, and a green Hippogriff. They were also awarded twenty-five points.

McGonagall applauded them, "Well done! Well done, indeed –"

Neville raised his hand, "Professor, may we keep them?"

McGonagall nodded, "Yes, but keep them out of sight until the class ends. I believe you, Mr. Longbottom, had the purple fox?" She moved to grab the toy and couldn't believe her eyes when it growled at her. As though in competition, the other toys then leapt off the desk (or, in the cases of dragon and the Pegasus, flew) and made their way toward their owners.

McGonagall stood gaping for a moment before sighing, "Another twenty-five points to Slytherin, for _live_ transfigurations." She shook her head, knowing full-well that she would never hear the end of it from Severus. Nearly all of his first-year snakes were prodigies. It just wasn't _fair_!

She felt a small tug on her sleeve and looked down to see both the stuffed centaur and the sphinx still there. Much to her surprise, the sphinx then began to speak: "If you wish to pick me up, you must answer my riddle –"

It _talks_! McGonagall shook her head. She couldn't _believe_ this. "No riddles," She snapped. "It's time for class to continue –"

"And how would you know what time it is?" The centaur had a superior look on his face as he eyed the teacher. "I read the stars better than all! It will be I who tell _you_ what time it is!"

McGonagall nearly set the blasted thing on fire. "Miss Bones, Mr. Malfoy! Please come and collect your toys, _immediately_."

Susan and Draco quickly picked up their animals and then went back to stand among the other first-years. Most of them were either chuckling or gazing the toys in amazement.

With a swish of the Professor's wand, the desks and the remaining bricks were back where they started. The first-years took their seats and McGonagall went back to the board.

When she turned around, she saw various foot-tall stuffed animals trying to escape their owners. The fluffy centaur was criticizing Mr. Malfoy, whose eye had already begun to twitch in response. Even though she would never hear the end of it from Severus about his little snakes, McGonagall smiled.

Then original lesson continued. After taking a lot of _complicated_ notes, they were each given a match and were told to try and turn it into a needle. Before McGonagall had time to sit in her seat, there were twelve hands in the air.

McGonagall didn't have to call on the stuffed-animal possessing students to know they were done. She quickly checked them and after seeing perfect needles and awarding each student one point, she then allowed the students to play _silently_ with their toys.

While McGonagall had favored Hermione Granger the first time around because she was the best student at her subject, this time Hermione barely got her notice. By the end of the lesson, compared to Susan Bones or Ron Weasley, or even little Neville Longbottom, or any of the other prodigal first-years – Hermione Granger was barely better than a squib.

At the back of the classroom, Hermione Granger growled into her arms. It just wasn't _fair_!

* * *

 **Hello, Darlings! Sorry I don't have much time but musical theater is kicking my ass right now. Just know that you're all amazing and wonderful and thank you so much! If I didn't get to answering your review it was because I only had an hour to get this posted! Also, please note thise story has been edited recently (8/20/2017) so that's why some things might look a little different.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	6. So Cloaked and So Crowned

Friday was an important day. Ron wasn't entirely sure why yet, but there seemed to be an odd sense of tension in the air. Frankly, Ron blamed the homework that was due to be assigned over the weekend and rather wished everyone would calm the fuck down.

He sighed, noting how tense Harry and his cohort were. It was too early to be worrying about someone getting cursed on accident.

"What's first class today?" Milli chirped as Ron poured sugar on his porridge. Milli, a noon-person at the earliest, had been unusually cheerful since her arrival at exactly seven am. Ron would have found it suspicious if he hadn't noticed the same cheer on many other faces. He frowned and absently stroked the head of his blue dragon, Smurf, who sat in his lap. What was he missing? Or, rather, _forgetting?_

"Double Potions with the Gryffindors," Ron said after a moment and then chuckled. "I mean, _Gryffindor_. They say Professor Snape always favors us — I guess we'll be able to see if it's true."

 _And if he's one of us_ , Ron thought privately. So far, the long-time spy had given nothing away.

"I wish McGonagall favored us," Seamus sniped. "I mean, we _are_ quite talented for our age." He then yelped sharply and rubbed his hand. His _vicious_ toy had just bitten him. Seamus glared at the grinning little ball of fur; it tended to get violent when it thought he was ignoring it. The volatile nature of the stuffy had given it its name, Sweets. After knowing Hagrid for so long, it was an ingrained knowledge that it was the ones with the cute names that you had to watch for.

Parvati rolled her eyes, idly petting Oracle, her cuddly black Pegasus. "She _does_ favor us; she has a thing for smart people." That was why she had favored Hermione the first time around and why she didn't anymore.

Seamus snorted and went back to his coffee.

Much like Flitwick, Professor McGonagall had kept them after class to test their abilities. By the end, she had pronounced that she would be speaking to Dumbledore about moving them to more advanced classes, just as Flitwick had. However, that hadn't stopped her from giving them a huge pile of homework the day before.

The screech of the mail owls broke the returned kids of their reverie. The only one to be sent anything yet was Harry, who had received an invitation to Hagrid's for tea (and a nip on the fingers from Hedwig for ignoring her for so long).

Harry winced guiltily at the memory of his displeased owl. He hadn't meant to ignore her, but after losing her and living without her for so long, it almost hurt to be near her. She was like a portal back to his first Hogwarts' years, when everything was so much more _innocent_. Seeing her look at him curiously when he jumped and flinched made him feel broken – _dirty_ , even.

He hadn't dared confess that line of thought to Ron or Neville, though he knew they would have supported him. Instead, he had forced himself up to the owlery one night, warded the place in ways that would make a goblin weep, and confessed to her. Hedwig had stayed attentive and eerily quiet through all of his mad rambling, nudging him when he went quiet. By the end, she had been perching contently in his lap, happily accepting his gentle petting.

Harry had left feeling more grounded than he had in _years_. He had even managed to pull a convincing smile for Ron and Neville the next morning. A good thing, too, seeing as they had left for Hagrid's soon after classes were over.

Harry smiled, thinking fondly of that afternoon. After much debate, all of the returned had wound up coming. By early evening, an affair which had started tensely had ended with Blaise having to all but _beg_ Draco to leave the hut following the fourth hour of non-stop dragon conversation. Since, Draco had been sneaking down to the hut any time he could safely hide it from the rest of Slytherin House. In the privacy of their own dorm rooms, Ron had started a friendly betting pool on how Lucius would react when he found out his perfect politician-in-training was setting up to turn into another Charlie Weasley.

Neville had chastised Ron for being mean but Harry had seen him put a bet down when Ron had his back turned. Never let it be said that Neville wasn't making a home for himself in Slytherin House.

Today, however, many more returned than just Harry received mail.

Draco smiled when the first package landed in front of him. There was relief in that smile, and happiness, but Harry could see fear there, too. They had known each other too long for him to miss it. Harry raised an eyebrow. "You were expecting something?"

"Of course. It _is_ tradition." Draco rolled his eyes and suddenly even Harry couldn't pick out anything but pride in Draco's face.

With a restraint common to all pureblood children, Harry was finding, Draco opened up the package. From a neat collection of green and black clothing and candies, he pulled out a small jeweler's box. Inside was an ear cuff, carved with astonishing detail in the figure of a silver dragon. Little green emeralds winked from its eyes and it looked very much like the dragon on the heir's ring Draco wore on his left hand.

"See?" Draco said, raising an eyebrow. He slipped the jewelry on and turned to the letter sent along with the package. His face was impassive but something about him seemed to unwind.

Beside Harry, a spark of realization lit Ron's face.

Dean tilted his head wonderingly, "Tradition?"

Theo barked a laugh, "I forgot you guys were muggle-raised." Various first years gave him a chiding look.

Theo shrugged carelessly and continued with buttering his toast. "Anyway, it is tradition that on the Friday morning of your first week of your first-year, wizarding parents send various signs that they approve of their child's sorting. Usually, parents send ties and scarves of their House colors, along with a letter. The better-off or pureblood ones pass down heirlooms or have special jewelry made. If they don't approve, the child gets nothing and usually stays at school for the winter holidays."

Blaise, Seamus, Theo, Lavender, Milli, and Daphne were the next to get a package. They opened them swiftly and began showing off their green scarfs or ties, candies, ribbons, pieces of jewelry, and other gifts. Lavender was lovingly stroking a vivid green quill sent to her in a smaller package from a 'Ms. S.' Harry noticed, with a trace of ingrained trepidation, that it looked very much like an infamous Quick Quotes Quill.

Parvati beamed as her package landed but let out a gasp when she opened it. Sitting in the middle of a nest of green and silver scarfs was a large jeweler's box. Inside was easily the most beautiful necklace she had ever seen. It was obviously antique; a choker with a galleon-sized emerald framed by ornate silver snakes. A smaller teardrop emerald dripped from the main piece and an array of tiny stones glittered in the scales of the snakes.

"Daphne! Quickly, help me put this on!" Parvati urged. Daphne eyes widened and she hastened to do up the clasp.

Parvati touched her neck, preening. "How does it look?"

All of the girls immediately started gushing over it. Parvati didn't need to read the letter to know who had sent the necklace, though she resolved to do so when she was free to cry over what was written. She already felt a tug of teary pride at her father's high praise. It stung a bit that he really hadn't been too pleased with her previous Gryffindor sorting, but that barely mattered anymore. All that mattered was her future, she thought firmly, and what surprises were left for her to discover there.

…Including, apparently, a few more surprises to come that morning.

Several owls carrying packages, including Hedwig, swooped down and landed in front of the Weasley boys, Neville, Susan, and Harry.

Susan opened her package first and felt tears well at the sight of the green dress carefully folded there. It was the dress she had worn to the Yule ball, one of her last reminders of her mother, charmed to fit her now. The first time she had kissed Terry, it had been wearing this dress. After a moment spent running her fingers over the smooth silk, she moved to the letter tucked in beside it. A grin quickly split her face.

"Auntie says she'll be visiting the school soon!" Susan announced. The other returned first years all exchanged eager grins. Suddenly, Susan's expression turned sly. "She also says she has a certain rat she wants to see and a dog to free from the pound."

The excitement among the returned ramped up another league. Amelia Bones was back and apparently, with a _vengeance_. Harry was all but slumped with relief, eyes shining behind his thick frames.

Thank you, he thought, not caring which pantheon caught it. Thank you, for this.

Neville opened his package next, at the gentle coaxing of the table. To be honest, he was a bit surprised that he had been sent something at all. At this point in time, his family had still considered him little better than a squib – he had only received a Remembrall for his Gryffindor sorting for that reason, instead of one of the more impressive Longbottom heirlooms. Also, for as long as he could remember, his family had been staunchly Light. He couldn't imagine what being sorted into 'the Dark' House would get him. So, you could say he was a touch stunned when he opened his parcel to find a plethora of green ties, silk button ups, dress pants, and even a container of green candies tucked inside.

With shaking hands, he gingerly read the letter tucked in among his goodies. His face must have paled several shades, because soon he had both his future-husbands and all of the returned first years crowding around him. He only looked away from the letter to hesitantly remove a ring box from the folds of fabric. He clenched it tightly in his free hand.

"What's wrong?" Harry snapped, his wand at the ready. He blinked slightly, looking at the wand. His instincts must have taken over for a moment.

"Gran's proud of me." Neville stuttered, disbelieving. "She's heard about the advanced classes and she's happy I'm a Slytherin. Says I'll make a great Lord Longbottom and that she's sorry she didn't give me this earlier…" he murmured mistily and eyed the ring box he'd plucked from the assorted fabrics.

Neville popped open the box cautiously, eyes as wide as dinner plates when inside he found the Longbottom Family Heir's ring. It was brightly gold, with intricate Celtic knots etched along the sides. A winged lion clutching a swordsat in the center, surrounded by a ring of tiny sapphires.

In his last life, Neville had never actually been allowed to wear the ring. His Gran had believed that he would lose it or that it would be stolen from him. When she had died in April of 1998, just before the Final Battle, she had left him the Lord's ring and informed him the Heir's was in the family vault if he ever needed it.

Now, he slipped it on with trembling hands.

"As she should be," Ron said softly from Neville's left, his hand coming to rest gently on Neville's shoulder. "I don't know how she could have ever doubted you." Harry hummed commiserating from Neville's right. His wand was back in his robe pocket but he was still pressed closely against Neville's side, eyes ticking over the rest of the package.

"About time the old bird gained some sense," Harry added, a sharp edge to his proud smile. Out of the three of them, Harry had always had the least tolerance for Augusta Longbottom. Where Ron could often be pacified by Neville's defense of her, Harry saw too much of the Durselys in her to be so easily appeased.

Harry nodded to the ring, his smile gentling. "It suits you," he added. Neville blushed but his pleased grin outshone his lingering insecurity.

The whole situation reminded Ron that he and Harry would need to make a trip to Gringott's to claim their titles and that they had best do it sooner rather than later. He sighed mentally, adding it to his list of things-to-do as soon as winter holidays rolled around. He shared a commiserating look with Harry, whose sudden grimace meant that the thought had also occurred to him. They could never manage a relaxing holiday, could they?

Neville gave them a shit-eating grin, remembering fondly how he _hadn't_ had to go through oodles of goblin paperwork to claim his title even in their last life. At the pained looks he received in return, he grinned brighter and nudged Ron's box a little. There was something to take their minds off it, he thought.

"Your turn, lo— _Ron_." Neville cursed. He had almost slipped up and called Ron 'love,' a major breach in pureblood propriety without a contract between them. They would have to get that bloody thing signed sooner than he had thought.

Ron smiled smugly at Neville – he _had_ suggested getting the contract done immediately, screw waiting for second year – before opening his package. He felt relief he hadn't even known he had been waiting for upon seeing the new, obviously expensive items it contained. Percy had already told him that his father and older brothers had come back and passed along letters from them all, but the obvious signs of wealth were a physical confirmation Ron hadn't known he had needed. The first time around, he had only received a congratulatory letter due to money problems. Now, his box was filled with brand new school robes, dress clothes, school books, additional materials, and a new wand – the wand that had chosen Ron after his second year.

Grinning ridiculously wide as _his_ wand sent glittering gold sparks harmlessly across the table, Ron saw that his brothers had all received similar packages. In fact, the twins were already coordinating identical outfits, while Percy hissed mock-disapprovingly at them. None of them could hide the joy in their eyes.

Milli, along with the rest of Slytherin House, looked on in confusion. "I thought the Weasleys were –" Her eyes widened when she realized what she was saying. "I mean, um, not very well off. Oh, Ron, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend -"

Ron smiled and shook his head, "It's okay, Milli." He pulled out the letter his dad had sent and, if at all possible, grinned wider at the various confirmations contained therein. The plan had gone off without a hitch!

"Dad says he has divorced Molly," Ron started with, noting amusedly that the entirety of Slytherin had stilled at his words. Divorce was rare in the Wizarding World. "Once it went through, Great Aunt Tessie finally agreed to cough up the Weasley Lordship, which let him keep full-custody of us," he gestured to his brothers and then pulled a solemn face for the onlookers. "However, my not-sister elected to stay with my not-mother."

By now, there was dead silence in the hall. Everyone who had ever gone through a wizarding etiquette class knew of the scandal caused by the marriage of Molly Prewett and Arthur Weasley. Completely out of the blue, young aristocrat and genius spellcrafter Arthur Weasley had proposed to Molly Prewett, whose reputation had been less than perfect ever since she was found cheating on Alaric Abbot in her third year. Lady Thessaly "Tessie" Weasley had withheld the Weasley Lordship over it, but that hadn't been of consequence to the couple. If the tale hadn't ended in a genius being lumped with the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office and stuck in abject poverty, it might have been romantic.

For a husband and wife who had survived so much scorn to suddenly split like that – what on earth could have caused it? And why was Molly Weasley's (Prewett's?) son referring to her as his 'not-mother'?

Pansy Parkinson, of course, couldn't help but voice the question. "How did _that_ happen?" Pansy needled, craning her neck to try and see the letter.

Ron shot her an acidic glare but straightened his shoulders as though to control a tremble. Much like his twin brothers, Ronald Weasley knew how to put on a good show. With a look of overpowering stoicism, he stared into the middle-distance and murmured: "Love potions."

The hall, which had been silently pretending not listen, gasped as one. An inferno of whispers broke out in the interim, but when Ron cleared his throat to speak again – perhaps to swallow a sob, the Hufflepuffs murmured sympathetically – the hall fell quiet.

"My father had a minor accident in his workshop a few days ago and when St. Mungo's ran his bloodwork, they found near-lethal amounts of Amortentia." A horrified noise broke across the hall. Ron bit his tongue to keep his bubbling laughter in. He cleared his throat and carried on, "Bill and Charlie are with him now. Lucius Malfoy has given my family the use of his private legal team as a gesture of good faith." At this, Ron gave the appropriate nod of acknowledgement to Draco, who returned it without a hint of mischief in his eyes. Ron restricted himself to a wobbly smile.

The Hufflepuffs, Hogwarts' official gossip mill, all murmured about his tragic strength.

"In addition, Great Aunt Muriel has given the Prewett tittle over to my father's care and removed Molly from the Prewett family to help make up for the offence." Digging into the package, Ron removed a black ring box much like Neville's. Inside, of course, was the Prewett Heir's ring. _Ha_ , Ron thought, _no awful goblin inheritance paperwork for me!_

Harry restrained a sigh. Of course, that left him alone in the misery. Lovely.

"Due to recent offences done against my father and family by a staunchly Light witch," Ron continued, and by now even Dumbledore was leaning forward in his chair, "My father would also like it to be known that the Weasleys are no longer a Light-aligned family and instead take a neutral stance on events henceforth." Ron finished the formal words with the appropriate solemnity. The twins made a mental note to congratulate their little brother on his fine performance.

The hall sat, stunned. In his golden throne, Albus Dumbledore cursed Molly No-Name for failing so spectacularly just when it counted.

Lowering his voice so that just those at their section of the table could hear, Ron informed them that, "Dad has also made it clear to our Head of House that he's willing to sponsor Slytherin cleanbloods. Particularly Dean Thomas and Lee Jordan," Ron added with a wink.

Lee Jordan, who was eating at the time, promptly choked on his toast. He had known Arthur Weasley was a kind guy, but from what Cassius had told him, sponsorship was a _Big Deal_. They had been going over who they could ask for _ages_. Now Arthur Weasley was sweeping in to save the day? Right after a _huge_ family upheaval? Lee met Cassius' eyes. This, plus the twins' freak decision to get re-sorted in the first place, was all starting to sound _really_ strange.

Not that he wasn't grateful, but Lee swore to himself he would get some _damn answers_ out of his evasive best friends before this weirdness went any further.

Dean, for his part, merely nodded his thanks before going back to his tea. As if his life hadn't just been completely changed. Lee narrowed his eyes, hand tightening around Cassius' beneath the table. _Oh, yes_ , he thought, _I deserve a fucking explanation, alright_.

Ron finished with, "And Luna also says hello and that she will be visiting come the holidays." He was grinning widely by the end, unable to restrain the emotion within his own court.

"Luna!" Lavender squealed. "Oh, I can't wait to see her! You _are_ inviting me over for the holidays, Ron?" She not-asked, the hard glint in her eyes hinting that Ron had no choice in the matter.

Ron gulped and nodded, sending the rest of his court into a fit of laughter.

Watching as the table snickered around him, Lee found himself once more at a loss. Everyone, including the twins and Percy, seemed to know this Luna person. Yet, in three years of intense friendship, Lee had never heard a word of her. Hell, he had even met the infamous Great Aunt Muriel once. How would he have no knowledge of this girl, who was apparently well-liked?

 _What the hell is going on_ , Lee thought, mystified. The last week had felt like a walking-dream. The twins skittered around his questions and Percy Weasley gave him sympathetic looks when Lee tried to interrogate him. Even the first years had talked circles around him when he had tried, in a fit of desperation, to find out what was going on from them.

His parents, of course, didn't know anything, nor did they care to. Not too strange, that. They were of the opinion that magic was fine and dandy as long as they didn't have to get too involved with it. Anything that took away from their business deals was rated as rather too much bother, really.

Sometimes, Lee wondered if they had just had a son to complete the happy picture they made.

Below the table, Cassius squeezed his hand reassuringly. Lee smiled at him, watching as some of the worry left Cassius' eyes. Idly, Lee wished they could just go ahead and get the contract hammered out so they could touch in public. Of course, that meant talking with his apparent sponsor. In light of his recent Weasley interactions – which were all vague and generally unhelpful - Lee wasn't looking forward to that. Besides, at the moment it was much more entertaining to watch Ron and Neville nudge Harry into opening his package. It involved a hell of a lot less thinking on Lee's part, anyway. Squeezing Cassius' hand back, Lee settled in for the show.

Harry opened his package cautiously, a grin creeping across his face when he saw what was inside. Of course, there was the usual clothing, as well as casual wear to replace his icky Dudley-castoffs, and candies, too. However, the focal point of the whole lot was a gorgeous, auror-issue wand holster. The Basilisk hide shimmered faintly with various protective and defensive spells and the Acromantula-silk lining gleamed in the light. Rows of runic wards were carved artfully into the hide, reinforcing the spells to last life-long. Shiny silver buckles and detailing ensured no magical creature could remove it and he knew it would mold magically to fit his arm, skinny as it currently was.

"Who sent the package, Harry?" Dean asked, looking admiringly at the wand holster. It was a beautiful piece of work and eerily similar to what Harry had worn in their first life.

Harry already had the letter in his hands, missing the knowing look on Draco's face. "It's from Remus!"

Dumbledore, who had thought it safe to return to his breakfast after the latest shock, nearly spat out his eggs. How had Lupin met the boy already!?

Harry was beamed unconsciously as he read, bringing smiles to both Neville and Ron's faces. They hadn't seen him so happy since their wedding day.

"Remus says that everything's great. He's happy I'm a Slytherin," Harry continued. He met Draco's eyes over the edge of the letter, who grinned cheekily at him. "He also said that the gifts are mostly from Lucius."

Everyone in the hall swiveled their heads back to stare at the first year Slytherins again. _Lucius Malfoy_ was sending gifts to _the_ _Boy Who Lived?_ Had they entered a parallel universe at some point?

Dumbledore had to steeple his fingers under his chin to keep his jaw from dropping.

Harry carried on, either oblivious to the hall's stares or uncaring. Unlike Ron, Harry didn't much give a shit about keeping up pretenses. "Lucius gives his regards and…" Harry trailed off, honest shock crossing his face. He looked to Draco again, who continued to grin brighter than the sun, nodding slightly. Neville and Ron both perked up, unaware of what could bring Harry to a complete halt like that. The rest of the hall and, in particular, Dumbledore, shared the sentiment.

"Harry, what is it?" Neville murmured, placing a cautious hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry had a tendency to react badly to movements he didn't see coming. On his other side, Neville could feel Ron tensing, getting ready to stand if needed.

Through it all, Harry and Draco never dropped eye contact and Draco's smile never faded.

"Apparently," Harry said at length, in a small voice, "The Malfoys and Potters share quite a lot of overlapping ancestry. We," he gestured between himself and Draco, "are cousins, of a sort. Lucius has used that to get custody of me." And here, the single most breath taking smile anyone had ever seen on Harry Potter stole across his face. "I don't have to go back to the Dursleys this summer or ever again!"

At once, chaos broke across the Great Hall. Draco Malfoy left his place to give a bone-crushing hug to his recently-discovered cousin, while Ron and Neville stared gape-mouthed before joining in. The returned first years cheered and Susan Bones was, perhaps, was the loudest of all. The houses fell into loud discussions and arguments and even the Head Table turned to each other to gossip.

In the end, it was Severus Snape who was forced to return order to the room, as the headmaster was too stunned to speak.

Harry smirked viciously from his new place between Draco and Ron, casting a sly look at Dumbledore, "Lucius also says that someone's in trouble for putting me with the Durselys in the first place; they just need to find out who it is." Beside him, Draco snorted. That was a lie but, oh, was it ever fun to watch Dumbledore's face skip grey and go straight to white.

"Lucius says to call him Uncle and that they'll see me as soon as possible; love and hugs and all that." Harry ended absently, more interested now in testing out the holster – which, as he had thought, shrunk to fit perfectly.

"This means we'll be spending Christmas together, cousin." Draco gave him such a feline look of satisfaction that Harry nearly expected to see a bird's worth of canary feathers floating around him. "Which means you'll be going to the annual Malfoy Yuletide Ball," Draco all but purred when Harry merely looked on blankly at him.

Suddenly, comprehension dawned. A ball meant formal clothes and formal clothes meant a shopping trip a la Draco Malfoy. An utterly terrifying thought, Harry mused, and gave a dramatic shutter to illustrate his point. The returned first years broke into hysterics.

For the first time in years, Harry found himself joining them honestly.

 **Wow, sorry for the wait, lovelies! It's coming up to exams for me so I'm a bit strapped for time. Anyhow, I hope you liked this, even if we didn't make it to potions class (next chapter, I swear!) Instead, I added a bit more culture porn (my dirty pleasure) and filled in some blank spaces (or, at least, I hope I did). Also, this chapter has been recently edited! (8/20/2017)**

 **Can't wait to hear from you, my dears! Your words are what keep me going!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	7. Snakes in the Grass

**Warning: Harry has a moment in his scene with Severus Snape that could be considered a symptom of Depression/PTSD, in Amelia's scene there is a brief description of death, and Rita's mentions briefly child-death. All-around cheery chapter, frankly.**

Milli grabbed a last bite before standing up. A bracelet of pale opals and tiny diamonds circled one wrist, matching the Bulstrode Heir's ring on her left hand. She hadn't made a fuss of receiving either. "Come on, we have to hurry and take our things back to our dorms or we'll be late for Potions. I heard Snape will hate you for years if you come to his class late during the first two weeks. Those are supposed to be the most important."

The former Gryffindors, older and younger, shared a look. Well, that explained a lot.

A mad dash to stow their belongings and make it to the classroom on time followed this revelation. However, upon arriving, they found the door locked. Even less pleasant was the sight of Hermione Granger leaning against it, avidly reading a potions book. Draco recognized it as being in no way meant for a first-year. In fact, Severus had barely allowed him access to it in his _seventh-year_. The potions inside were volatile and dangerous, but the ingredient descriptions were second-to-none. No wonder the little bitch could answer any question thrown her way the first time around, he thought bitterly.

However, Draco did note that she was barely a chapter in yet, and nowhere near the glossary. He smirked; this could be _interesting_.

"Well, if it isn't the lone lion," Pansy sniped. "How does it feel to be the only Gryffindor?"

Hermione put her nose in the air and ignored Pansy. Instead, she set her eyes on the returned Slytherins and walked toward them. "I heard you lot are the best in our grade, so far."

"The teachers are planning on letting us take more advance classes," Seamus bragged, his smile more to show off his teeth than to express his pride.

The bushy-haired bitch looked at him enviously before giving herself a mental shake. She smiled back at Seamus. "Well, _I_ plan on being the best in Potions," she declared.

Dean's mouth nearly dropped, while the others had to bite their tongues to hide their laughter. Draco, who would one day create a painless and permanent Wolfsbane alternative (while on the _run_ ), snorted derisively. As fucking _if_ , he thought venomously.

Lavender cleared her throat to hide her disbelieving giggles. "Good for you."

"Maybe if you need tutoring in Potions, I could help you." Hermione offered, eyes full of arrogance. "We could study together! You'll definitely need all the help you can get, so just ask me."

Draco gagged slightly. Blaise put a comforting hand on his back, watching in dismay as the girl prattled on.

"I've also been reading up on the Old-Ways ever since I heard about your unfortunate family troubles, Ronald. I thought I might be able to help. Divorce can be so confusing," she added, blinking her lashes at him. Ron glared, resisting the urge to go for his wand only by the skin of his teeth. Beside him, Harry took a step forward, followed by his once-soldiers. Neville narrowed his eyes and let his hand go to his wand. Who did this bitch think she was?

Unaware of the tension, Hermione Granger continued digging her grave. "I find them quite barbaric, actually; what with all this _marriage contract_ nonsense, but I've become quite knowledgeable on them. Did you hear that the Board of Governors is trying to reinstate Old-Ways classes? Dumbledore is fighting them, of course. Such blood-supremacist propaganda shouldn't be taught to a population that mostly muggle-raised, after all. As a muggle-born, I find it all highly offensive, but if the classes do go through, I promise to help you with them. With all the reading I've done, I really do think I will be the most knowledgeable," she said smugly.

Looking around at the growing rage on the faces of the first year court, Tracy, Milli, Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle began to back away. The _audacity_ this girl had! Pansy swallowed, taking a position behind Crabbe and Goyle, who were looking on with their mouths gapping. Pansy tugged Tracy with her, while Milli gingerly made her way to stand beside Susan.

Susan smiled at her, apparently pleased to see Milli standing with them, and Milli grinned back. Milli had never been the best at magic but even her father admitted she was good in a fight. Like Grandmother Mansfield said, spells were well and good – but so was a square shot to the nose.

Milli cracked her knuckles. Grandmother had always said Milli had a gifted punch.

Then a small blue dragon landed on her shoulder. "The professor is around the corner," Smurf murmured, "Hold you fire." Smothering a grin, Milli nodded. The stuffy bopped its head and flew back to Ron, whose bag was open for it to return to.

As if that were a cue, Neville laughed loudly in Hermione's face. The others in the court stared blankly at her for a moment, incredulous, before turning to each other and chatting. Milli watched from the corner of her eye as Hermione Granger was ignored as though she had never said anything at all. The girl's face turned viciously red and she ducked her head to hide her expression.

"Thank-you for standing with us, Milli," Susan said softly, letting the louder conversations absorb theirs.

Milli blushed. "It was nothing, really. We didn't even come to blows."

Susan looked over her shoulder, where Pansy and Tracey were just creeping out from behind Crabbe and Goyle. "Still, we won't forget this. It's this sort of thing that shows a person's true colors, after all."

Just then, Professor Snape strode down the hall, black robes billowing behind him. The first-years fell silent, shuffling into a line as if by instinct. When the door creaked open, they flooded in behind the professor with nervous expressions.

However, it was only the returned who feared for more than their grades.

Potions lessons took place, once again, down in one of the dungeons. It was still colder here than up in the main castle and it still would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars on shelves all around the walls. In short, Neville was already eager to be back in Herbology, where the sun actually shone. _Please_ , he thought, _let's not make this worse by having to deal with the old Snape again. Please!_

However, Neville hadn't noticed any changes in the course of events yet. Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call and just like before, he paused at Harry's name. "Ah, Yes," Snape said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new — _celebrity_."

Harry restrained a grimace. _We were so close,_ he thought morosely. _If Amelia, Remus, Narcissa, and Lucius are back, why isn't Severus?_

Fucking _fate_.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making," Snape began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper but they caught every word — Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

More silence followed this little speech. Harry and Ron and Neville exchanged concerned looks, while Hermione Granger sat on the edge of her seat and looked desperate to start proving that she wasn't a dunderhead.

"Granger!" Snape snapped suddenly. "Since you are claiming to be the best in your year, what is the first ingredient you need for the Polyjuice potion?"

Granger looked confused. "Sir, that wasn't in the first-year Potions book –"

"A point from Gryffindor," Snape sneered. "I did not ask that, Miss Granger. Can you or can you not tell me what is the first ingredient you would need for the Polyjuice Potion?"

"No, Professor." She looked down.

"Thought so," Snape's lip curled. "Potter! What is the answer?"

"Twelve lacewing flies that should be stewed for twenty-one days," Harry answered, resisting the urge to smile. Old knowledge died hard, apparently.

"Two points to Slytherin!" Snape turned his attention back to Hermione. "Granger, what can armadillo bile be used in? Hint, Granger: you will need it."

"I don't know, I –"

Not waiting for her to continue her defense, Snape carried on. "Thomas, what is the answer?"

"Wit-Sharpening Potion, professor."

"Granger! Name an ingredient in Shrinking Solution."

Hermione face was turning redder. "Sir! That's not in the first-year text!"

Snape didn't seem to care. "No answer to be found with you, then. Greengrass, answer the question."

"Caterpillars, sir."

Snape nodded and turned to look at the only Gryffindor. "This is how it is going to work. Granger, since you seem to believe being the best in Potions is just about what you know, I will ask a series of questions to the class. Any who know the answer will raise their hand so I may call on them. If you are correct, you will receive a point. If you don't know the answer, don't raise your hand. Understood?"

The class echoed a 'Yes, sir.' The non-Slytherin returned all shot each other considering looks. Could this be how Snape acted when he was around his Slytherins or was this a sign he actually _was_ a returned? Harry tried to catch Draco's eye but his cousin's face was infuriatingly blank.

"Granger," Snape continued. "After you see exactly how limited you are, maybe you will lose your arrogant know-it-all attitude. Let's begin: I will start with the middle of first-year questions."

Surprisingly, Hermione hadn't memorized that far. However, to the surprise of many, Crabbe and Goyle _had._ It was them who answered questions back and forth, though all of the other students (besides Hermione) had raised their hands.

"Moving on to second-year questions," Snape droned, apparently uninterested in the proceedings. "What is in the Confusing and Befuddlement Draught?"

Everyone but Hermione raised their hand. Snape called on Tracy. "Sneezewort, scurvy-grass, and lovage, sir."

"What can daisy roots be used for? Crabbe!"

"Shrinking Solution!"

"Name one ingredient in the Draught of Peace, Weasley!"

"Hellebore, sir."

Snape nodded and continued. As he began the third-year questions, Granger was the only one out.

"What is the main ingredient in a basic boil-cure potion? Bones."

"Horned slugs."

After several more questions with all but one trying to answer, Snape was feeling quite proud of his little snakes. "On to fourth-year."

Half-way through the fourth-year questions, Pansy found she could no longer answer; however, she was quite pleased with herself nonetheless. Tracy went down next, followed by Milli, Dean, Seamus, and Lavender during the first part of the fifth-year questions. Parvati, Harry, and Daphne fell in the third potion of fifth-year, with Ron not far behind. Theo, Susan, and Blaise made it to the beginning of sixth.

Neville, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle went head-to-head for the remainder of the sixth-year questions. Neville had a slight advantage: his herbology background made questions based on plants and what potions they were used for easy. Thinking back, Ron reckoned they shouldn't have been too surprised by Crabbe and Goyle, either. As the founders of the C&G Potions Company, their fathers had a monopoly on the ingredient market. They had probably picked up all this up while training to inherit the business.

To the surprise of no one, least of all the returned, Draco was the overall winner. He only dropped the ball a quarter of the way into seventh year. Being a potions master in the future, he could have gone through seventh and beyond, but he wasn't willing to tip his godfather off to something strange if the man hadn't, in fact, returned.

"I am impressed," Snape pronounced, in the same manner one might a death sentence. "Seventy well-deserved points to Slytherin. Nicely done." Snape gave them all a look that they assumed was his best approximation of approval. They smiled back proudly.

"Granger!" Snape growled, turning on her like a viper. "I hope this scene will stay lodged in your mind. Remember that you are not superior just because you memorized the first semester of the first-year."

Granger looked down, angry with Professor Snape and herself. She could feel the jealously bubbling up inside her. It just wasn't fair! How could she be the worst in the class by entire _grade-levels_?

"Seeing as nearly all of you have knowledge to at least fourth-year, you will each be given the second-year aptitude written test along with the practical portion. If you pass with an Outstanding, I will talk with the headmaster about moving you to a more advance Potions class. Before you leave this classroom, you will know you grade."

Hermione raised her hand, "Will I be taking the test as well, Professor?"

"That is entirely up to you, Granger," Snape snarled over his shoulder.

Hermione wilted at his tone but overall brightened at the idea of seeing where her aptitude level was in Potions class. At least then she could hold that over the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs. "I would like to, Professor."

Snape shook his head. He didn't have to read Granger's mind to know just what she was thinking. "Very well. I'll need to remind myself to give the same aptitude test to the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs." He cast a considering look at his strangely large Slytherin class, hiding his own smirk as he said, "It is only fair, after all."

Harry felt relief course through his blood, barely resisting a decidedly Gryffindor-ish cheer. There it was! The sign that _their_ Severus Snape was back!

The Snape during this time period hadn't given a flying fuck about being fair as long as he was content. He was damaged, worn-down, and bound by a manipulative old man. The Severus Snape standing before the returned first-years was a less bitter, gentler version. A version that existed in the future only after a bloody war and a hard-won freedom.

Having regular screw sessions with his husband had probably helped, too.

After shooting a wave of covert smiles at each other, the gang turned back to their professor. Severus handed out the tests, purposely not meeting the eyes of his students, before returning to the front of the room.

"You have two and half hours," he murmured. "Begin."

"I am happy, albeit inconceivably stunned, to say that all but one among you have managed to perform Outstandingly on this test. Congratulations." Snape gave a long, sarcastic clap. "I will speak to the headmaster at my earliest convenience. Now, get out!" As the students rushed for the door, Snape called: "Mr. Potter, remain behind."

Harry froze but gestured for the other first-years to keep going. Snape closed the door with a spell and locked it.

Turning on his heel, Harry grinned winningly. "Sev, I –"

"Sit."

Harry returned to his seat with a glum expression on his face. Well, there went that plan. It only worked with Sirius in the room, anyway.

Sirius… Harry winced. Hehad been trying to avoid thoughts of Sirius until he knew for sure his godfather was safe, but Severus being back had to be a good sign, right? And Amelia was on the case. She would make sure Sirius was safe, regardless. Right?

 _Unlike you_ , a nasty voice whispered. _Too hopped up on love potions to notice your ex-wife murdering your family. Pathetic. It's a wonder they can stand you._

Biting his lip, Harry shoved those thoughts away. He had been doing so well lately, barely even an episode of insomnia to bother him. He wasn't going to let all of that slip because of one bad little voice. Besides, Harry thought, one problem at a time.

Severus stood in front of his desk, staring down at Harry accusingly. Harry grimaced at the other man's crossed arms. Uh oh.

"Are you going to explain to me," Severus started sibilantly, "what you did to make it so we came to be back in time, Harry? Keep in mind, I'm not angry about this situation."

"How do you know it was my fault?"

"IT'S ALWAYS YOUR FAULT!"

Harry grinned. Well, he supposed he couldn't argue with _that_.

* * *

The Minister for Magic's office was, in a word, _imposing_. The cathedral ceiling was held up by white Roman columns, tapestries of wizarding greatness hanging between each pair. A rich oak desk took up much of the back of the room, with two ornate, uncomfortable wingbacks set before it. The marble floors were lousy with intricate carpeting and artwork and artifacts peered from any number of podiums and shelves. The walls were dark, rich plum and every piece of hardware was golden. However, the Minister's chair was frankly Merlin-sent and for that Amelia Bones would forgive the office that housed it quite a lot.

Sometimes, Amelia could barely believe she was here. There were mornings she found herself walking to the DMLE offices as though nothing had ever changed; as though she hadn't become a vicious, cutthroat creature of politics. As if she weren't prepared to be worse, if that was what it took. Then the memories would bite her, their poison bleeding into every moment of her day. She would see Susan and Terry all dressed up, the weight of her own navy dress robes heavy on her shoulders. She would remember teasing tall, tall Terry about how squished he would be in the back of the fancy Ministry-issued car.

Amelia closed her eyes, letting the chair take her full weight. They had been attending a gala for St. Mungo's. Susan had been schmoozing for more funding for the infant's wing and Terry, as Minister Shacklebolt's Senior Undersecretary, had been attending for both his wife and the good press. Amelia had come because it was the polite thing to do and certainly not because it was just the sort of event a certain someone could be found at.

They had been returning home when Amelia had noticed something strange with the driver. He was blank-faced, almost unresponsive. She had realized that he had been imperio'd just a second too late.

Her last memory was turning to see Susan, hanging upside-down in the seat behind her, long stems of blood flowing into her scarlet hair. Then the car had exploded.

Amelia grit her teeth, eyes flying open. She would do anything to keep that image from tainting her new reality. The first step, regrettably, had been swallowing her reluctance and becoming Minister. Shacklebolt was just fine in the future but he was a kind man. She knew that he wouldn't have the lack of conscience to move as fast as she wanted. With Narcissa spearing him, perhaps – but Amelia didn't have the time to take that chance. Her political enemies and allies had never even seen her coming and by the time they did, she was already in the chair.

Cornelius Fudge would be in prison for embezzlement by the end of the month and for a slew of war crimes, Bartemius Crouch Senior would soon be joining him. Highest on his list of sins was the false imprisonment of Lord Sirius Black, who had been released into the care of his remaining family – Narcissa Black-Malfoy. Peter Pettigrew would be tried and Kissed by Tuesday– she already had a unit dispatched to retrieve the rat from Severus Snape, who had 'discovered' the bastard in Ronald Weasley's pocket. She was galled to admit that Lucius Malfoy had been an invaluable ally in her warpath but Amelia figured she had thanked him well enough. She had all but given him the Hogwarts' Board of Governors, after all. With connections made there, she was confident that he would have the House of Lords by the short hairs in no time. In return, by the next election Amelia was confident that her temporary appointment would be an official one.

A knock at the door brought Amelia from her thoughts. "Are you busy, Minister?"

Amelia waved her hand, opening the door to allow her Senior Undersecretary in. "Not at all, Dolores."

Umbridge closed the door behind her. "I'm here to speak about the Magical Children's Act."

Amelia nodded and straightened, refusing to a run a weary hand through her auburn hair. She had been dreading this conversation but knew that it had to happen eventually. Put forth by Lucius Malfoy, the Magical Children's Act would ensure that no magical child, muggleborn or otherwise, would be allowed to live with muggles who refused to meet _numerous_ conditions. According to Lucius' opening remark, it was inspired by the " _hateful_ " mistreatment of his newly-reclaimed nephew, Harry Potter.

The Act would all but erase muggleborns, forcing muggle parents to include wizarding schooling and traditions in their child's life. If the parent didn't, couldn't, or wouldn't, the Act gave the Ministry power to remove the child. Any allegations of abuse or neglect, physical, mental, or emotional, would also be grounds for removal. Muggle parents would be vetted with extreme prejudice, made to attend classes about the Wizarding World, and be checked up upon regularly. It wasn't on par with genocide, or even prejudiced separation from the Muggle World, but it still felt like going up to the pureblood supremacists and saying, "I'm sorry, you were right."

"It has my support. I am fully behind it," Amelia bit out. If she had to look Lucius Malfoy in the eye and shake his hand over it, she would scream. Political bedfellows they may be – hopefully temporarily – but she swore she would never like the smug prick.

Ignorant of Amelia's bitter feelings, the smile on Umbridge's face widened. "Excellent choice, Minister. The next move will be to set up care for the little darlings, of course. I don't expect the home will be full long, though. If the dear, sweet children are half as lovely as my Olivia, they will all be adopted in short order. Why, did you know that just yesterday her accidental magic turn my _entire_ living room pink? It was adorable!"

Amelia nearly groaned as Umbridge babbled on about her daughter, one of the first to be reclaimed from "improper" muggle parents. The tiny, pixie-like child had curbed nearly all of Umbridge's vicious qualities but her blathering was still a price to pay.

"Yet," Umbrige cut herself off, lips pulling into a moue of disapproval, "There is one small hindrance to the act. Dumbledore."

Amelia narrowed her eyes. Dumbledore. If there was ever a man she disliked more than Malfoy Senior, it was Dumbledore. Even in her last life, Amelia had disliked his pushy, manipulative nature. Suspecting what she did now, very little had kept her from abusing her position and ordering a hit. Instead, Amelia had taken great pleasure in removing him from power as Chief Warlock.

"Dumbledore has little political pull," she said with relish. A few well-placed, Malfoy-spawned rumours and an article form Rita Skeeter, bless her, had taken care of that. "He is no longer a problem."

Umbridge shook her head, "He may no longer be head of anything, but he is still the Leader of the Light. The Light will follow his commands and he is against the act."

Amelia restrained a sigh. Of course Dumbledore would be against it and of course his sheeple would follow him. _This is why I'm neutral_ , Amelia thought. _This Light and Dark nonsense is a pain in the ass._

This wasn't the first act Light views were threatening, either. The Creature and Dark Arts Amendments were also fighting Light bias, as well as the Education Amendment. In Amelia's opinion, all three actions were dearly needed. The Creature Amendment would provide rights to all sentient humanoid creatures, giving them access to services they had never had before: blood banks, health care, welfare, education, and more. They would be treated like ordinary citizens, as long as they agreed to never inform the muggles (sans their mates and in emergency circumstances) about the magical world.

The Dark Arts Amendment would reverse discriminatory laws set in place by the Light against the Dark. Many Dark traditions and practices would be legalized along with books, heirlooms, and techniques. Magical children would be exposed to both kinds of magic, allowing them to expand and advance their cores. Many of these corrections were also seen in the Education Amendment, which would have Hogwarts bring back all the old courses various Light headmasters had removed over the years. Healing, Etiquette, and Languages were just a few.

Already, the terrifying Fenrir Greyback, Werewolf Britain's Chief-Alpha, had come forward to offer his approval of the terms set by Creature Amendment. It was the first time anyone had seen him in close to a decade. Amelia would have taken it as a hint that he had returned but upon meeting him she had found that sadly false.

The Fenrir Greyback who had come to sign a treaty with her was no less feral than the one who had joined Voldemort. Merely, she had offered him a better deal than the semi-dead Dark Lord. He was still a man willing to resort to child-cruelty and terrorism to carve out any scrap of respect for his persecuted people he could. However, even without the humanity awakened by Bill Weasley, Amelia had found that she could understand him perfectly. The thought both awed and repulsed her.

Yet, she had negotiated a treaty between them. If the Creature Amendment went through, Wizarding Britain never need to fear a werewolf again.

If she could just get the thrice-damned thing _passed_.

Amelia fingered her wand in thought before smiling. "We will have to put Rita on it. She will make it so that the pureblood elite think that they are taking over while putting guilt in the hearts of the Light. Knowing Rita, our problems will be over by the holidays." Amelia paused for a moment before adding, "We will also need her to release an announcement about my appointment. I haven't even had the time to inform my own niece yet."

Umbridge nodded firmly. She couldn't help but be glad that there was finally a competent minister in office. "Things have been going so quickly, Minister. It is a wonder they're as smooth as they are. I'll send a letter immediately."

Amelia hesitated but then nodded. This needed to be done quickly; she could pen Rita on her own time.

Umbridge left the room soon after, leaving Amelia feeling oddly maudlin. Reaching into one of the desk's hidden drawers, she removed a bottle of Firewhiskey and an emerald-studded tumbler. Oddly, both were congratulatory presents from one Ms. Skeeter.

Amelia smiled softly. _Cheers to me,_ she thought, and let herself relax to the burn of the alcohol, _the best bloody turncoat in all of Britain._

* * *

Rita Skeeter sat behind her desk, reading a letter from the Minister's Senior Undersecretary, Madame Umbridge. Once upon a time, she would have risked Azkaban to get her hands on dirt like this. Now, it came addressed to her – how positively _naughty!_ Who knew that being Editor and Chief of the Daily Prophet would be such a lark? And to think, all it had taken was some creative blackmail and an oath to print the truth.

The oath had annoyed her, at first. However, Rita was a pragmatic person. You had to be, to grow up a muggleborn Slytherin in the early 60's. If a binding oath was what it took to ensure Lucius Malfoy and his elites had her back, she would work with it. Besides, the only real problem with truth was how much it pissed people off. With the backing of the newly dubbed Magickals' Movement, spear headed by all of the Old Money, Rita was untouchable.

Setting the letter down, Rita lounged back in her leather chair and turned her face to the large bay windows. Diagon Alley bustled below her, bright and colorful like it hadn't been when she had died. The center square was free of any looming, corpse-cluttered gallows. No dying beggars sat outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor in place of children. The darkness over Knockturn hung thick and black, far from the ashen, exposed husk left behind by the Light Purges' burnings. Storefronts were unbarred, shoppers unbowed, and she hadn't yet seen one wanted poster anywhere. Once upon a time, in a future not so far from where she sat, you couldn't see the brick for them.

Rolling her eyes, Rita snapped up to a proper sitting position, back turned to the memories in the window. _Pragmatism_ , she thought. _You mustn't lose that now, darling. Wait until you can do it over a glass of wine and a pretty person's sexy bits._

For now, she had an article to write. Oh, and what an article it would _be!_ When she was done, it would take a place of pride over even the other two critical acclaims she had framed on her wall. Respectively, they had exposed the corruption of Cornelius Fudge and the feebleness of Albus Dumbledore. The Dumbledore one she was particularly fond of – it was the first time her work had lost someone not just their local reputation but their international one as well.

Now, though, she was writing what might just be her pièce de résistance – _Sirius Black: innocent, never even proven guilty!_

The article would be dominated by a comprehensive photo spread of the young Lord Back – gorgeous and clad in auror robes, laughing after a raid, arm-in-arm with James Potter; a touching photo where he was holding the young baby saviour, teary as a new father himself – and his later inmate photos. Also included were a few shots of him upon his release – emaciated, blank-faced, and all but clinging to his cousin, Narcissa Black-Malfoy. Between the visceral, heart-wrenching photos was a rundown of the circumstances of his arrest, lack of trial, and hushed transfer to a maximum-security Azkaban cell.

The article went on to include the arrest of Peter Pettigrew, hiding as a cowardly rat in _Hogwarts_ , with _schoolchildren,_ in their _dormitories_. It would herald Severus Snape as a hero for apprehending the Animagus and summoning the authorities, as well shine a good light on Amelia Bones for her prompt actions regarding the abuse of Lord Sirius Black. Dumbledore would be thrown under the bus, though they needed to wait for Sirius to heal before they could interview him regarding whether Dumbledore knew of the change in Secret Keeper.

Come the Monday morning release, all of Wizarding Britain (Wizarding Europe? Possibly the entire _Wizarding World_ ) would care for was that Sirius Black, superstar auror, war hero, and Lord of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, had been sentenced to Azkaban, innocent and without a trial.

She could already hear the angry roar of wizarding citizens in the streets. If _Lord Black_ could be sent to Azkaban without a trial, what chance did the commoners have?

None at all, would be the answer government inaction would provide.

Rita resisted the pang in her heart. She hoped Amelia was prepared to deal with this. Even if Rita had done her best to show Amelia favorably, there would still be backlash against the Ministry. This was justifying every anarchist, every reformist, and every monarchist. Keeping the political structure as it was would be a hell of a task.

Rita smiled faintly. If anyone could handle such a clusterfuck, it was Amelia Bones.

Sighing, Rita turned to the filing cabinet on her left. Like everything in her office, it fit three criteria: elegant, expensive, and effective. After allowing the filing cabinet to read her magical signature, the top draw popped open. Flipping through the notes of various future articles – the Malfoy Divorce, the Weasley Potions Scandal, the Lockhart Lawsuit – Rita pulled out the information she had on the Acts and Amendments. She would have these written up in the Saturday and Sunday editions; use them as a lead up to the Black story. If Amelia were shown pushing for reform even before there was a call for it, most of the public rage should be deflected onto past regimes. Of course, Rita couldn't look too pro-Ministry, lest she lose credence with her readership – but she could help a bit.

Biting her lip, Rita debated what to do with the Malfoy and Weasley articles. They weren't technically as pressing as the Ministry politics but she would be damned if she let the hype on the Weasley Scandal die. She would never have a better opportunity to build up Arthur's reputation or to drag Molly's through the mud. As for the Malfoys, well, Narcissa was a dear friend. Rita doubted she would have made it out of Hogwarts if Narcissa hadn't helped her and convinced her family to act as Rita's sponsor.

Narcissa deserved the freedom of her divorce and she deserved a complimentary article to welcome her back to single society. Rita would fit it into the Saturday morning addition if it killed her. Amelia could just make do with having Sunday as her big, hurrah-I'm-the-new-Minister day before the Black story broke on Monday.

Pushing her curly hair back, Rita pulled it into an atrocious excuse for a bun and rang her assistant for the strongest cup of coffee known to magic-kind. _Truly_ , Rita thought, _there is no rest for the wicked – even when we're doing the right thing!_

Remembering the cold Kiss of the dementor that had stolen her soul away, luring her into a sort of captive peace, Rita decided she was perfectly content with that.

* * *

 **Alright, I'm still behind on replies, but I hope you take this chapter as a good excuse. You people are wonderful, by the way - I could ask for no better, more motivating audience! Also, I included a bit of a crossover in here. Can anyone tell me what it is and where it's from? In addition, we get the first hints of who Amelia is probably being shipped with, so I hope you guys liked that. Edited newly on 8/20/2017.**

 **I hope to hear from you soon! You're all lovely!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	8. The Truth

**Warning: Mentions of torture, war, two attempts on a life, and a panic attack in Lavender's part! Ends at 'Dennis...' Stay safe, lovelies.**

 **The Daily Prophet**

September 7, 1991

Finding freedom – divorced and happy about it!

 **By Rita Skeeter**.

 _My dear readers, do I ever have a scoop for you! Recently, I have discovered that in the last week there have been not one but_ _ **two**_ _pureblood divorces. As we all well know, divorce is blessedly rare in the Wizarding World. Out of respect for the sacred nature of love and marriage, we wizarding folk hold fast to our bonds of partner. However, readers, we also well know that some sins are truly unforgivable._

 _In the case of the startling and stunning divorce of Lord Arthur Weasley-Prewett, who as of Friday morning left Molly No-Name (once Prewett), the sin in question is undeniably clear: love potions, my dear readers. After a brief hospital visit following an accident in his home workshop, the diligent staff of St. Mungo's confirmed the presence of large amounts of Amortentia in Lord Weasley's blood. Upon running samples to find the invoker, aurors discovered a match in his (now ex-) wife. Medical experts concluded that Molly No-Name had been drugging Lord Weasley-Prewett since his late teens. To many, I am sure that the circumstances of their infamous union now make perfect – if horrifying – sense._

 _When I discovered this crime, readers, I was shocked and outraged. Not just on the behalf of the kind and noble Lord Arthur Weasley-Prewett, but on the behalf of Love itself! Love is sacred and as grand as magic is, love should never be manipulated by our gift. To do what Molly No-Name did is disgusting. Was she so horridly ugly that she couldn't get a man without the use of potions? Well, perhaps – but that does not excuse her! She should be tried with the full force of the law for her crimes._

 _As I am sure my readers well know, Amortentia is no gentle spell. The effects are hard on the body of the consumer, leaving them pale, gaunt, ill, and withered. Beyond the obsession inspired by the invoker, continued use leaves the person blurry-minded, confused, muted, subdued, and altogether unlike themselves. School friends of Lord Weasley-Prewett, who described him as "sharp-tongued, clever, creative, and always curious" bemoaned the sudden shift in his character at the time. Now, they kick themselves with the guilt of not seeing the whole picture._

 _In reaction to this terrible turn of events, Lady Thessaly 'Tessie' Weasley also expressed condolences to her nephew. "I never would have thought," the 102-year-old Arithmancey Mistress confessed tearfully during an interview. "I should have, though. Arthur never was the same after that b*tch got to him. My poor Arthur."_

 _Since the interview, Lady Weasley has removed the infamous ban on Lord Weasley-Prewett's inheritance, allowing him to claim his lordship. In addition, Lady Muriel Prewett has given the Prewett title into Lord Weasley-Prewett's hands and has removed Molly No-Name from the Prewett family. This was done as a reparation to Lord Weasley-Prewett, whose youngest son, Ronald, will now inherit the title, following the Prewett inheritance charter._

 _Miraculously, Lord Weasley-Prewett is slated to make a full recovery from his trauma. In addition, being the honorable, loving (though heart-broken) man that he is, Lord Weasley-Prewett does not wish to press charges against the woman who gave him such wonderful sons. Lord Weasley-Prewett has decided to take full custody of all his remaining school children, except his youngest, Ginevra: a rather ugly, freckled girl who takes after her mother. Sources say that the girl refused to go into the loving and protective custody of Lord Weasley-Prewett—choosing to, believe it or not, my dear readers, stay with her despicable mother._

 _It was a sad day, readers, for Lord Weasley-Prewett when, after discovering his wife's treachery, he then had to face the vindictiveness of his own only daughter. Yet, cry no longer Lord Weasley-Prewett, we at the Daily Prophet are behind you one hundred percent! As if to prove that our faith is wisely placed, Lord Weasley-Prewett is currently in the process of sponsoring Slytherin House's newest cleanbloods, Dean Thomas, first-year, and Lee Jordan, third-year._

 _Presently, Lord Weasley-Prewett and his eldest two sons, William and Charles, reside with Lady Weasley at the unplottable Weasley Estate._

 _At the beginning of this article, my dear readers, I spoke of sins that could not be forgiven. In the next stunning case, I speak here of the sins of the father – or rather, the entire last generation. As all reading should remember, it was only in the early seventies that arranging a marriage without consent was officially made a punishable crime in Wizarding Britain. In the precedent setting case of Black v. Black, Mrs. Andromeda Tonks (nee Black) and her legal counsel successfully proved that a forced marriage between wizarding folk is not only mentally and physically harmful, but magically, as well._

 _However, there are always those who seek to break the rules – no matter the cost to themselves or their children._

" _I was fourteen when my father told me I would marry Lucius," Lady Narcissa Black-Malfoy explains. Her smile is rueful. "I don't know why he felt the need to tell me so formally. I had known what was expected of me since I was a little girl." Beside her, the illustrious Lord Lucius Malfoy is the picture of a supportive friend. Together, they are dignified in a way no one going through such upheaval would be expected to maintain._

 _You see, dear readers, the Malfoys – like many young purebloods of the past – were forced into their marriage. To today's modern youngling, the idea is horrific. How could you be expected to love with no choice? How would your magic know to sync with that other person's – how could you bond?_

" _It was rather like a business deal," Lord Malfoy answers. "For a very long time, I thought that was what love was." Lady Black-Malfoy nods commiserating._

" _If it had been anyone but Lucius… I cannot imagine the nightmare. As it was, we were quite lucky," the Lady confides. "That was why, when many others in our position were separated by the summer of 73', we held back."_

" _I felt like I had dodged a spell, honestly. Narcissa had been my most trusted friend since first-year. With the War ripping Wizarding Britain apart, I could not imagine putting our position in jeopardy. Especially when Narcissa and I were… not happy, as such, but content." Lord Malfoy adds._

 _Lady Black-Malfoy continues. "Draco came not too long after and, well. How could we divorce with a child so young? It was not as though we could not stand each other or that there was anyone else. We were two dear friends with a child. Why complicate the situation?"_

" _So, why now?" I ask, eager to understand. The Malfoys have long been the standard to which wedded wizarding spouses have measured themselves. Even if there was no true love between them, what could have sparked them to end their perfect arrangement? The answer, my dear readers, is… love._

 _It is Lord Malfoy who answers me, with a smile that is softer than anything this reporter has ever seen him show. "As Narcissa said, for the longest time there was no one else for either of us, and now…" ex-husband and wife share a look that can only be described as mischievous. I cannot help but smile, too. In love or friendship, let it never be said that these two are anything but complimentary._

" _Now," Lady Black-Malfoy finishes, "There is. For both of us."_

 _This concludes our interview. Soon, Lord Malfoy leaves for the Ministry. Lady Black-Malfoy walks me to the Floo, the perfect hostess to the last. As we chat, she reveals that following the divorce Lord Malfoy claimed her as a sister within the Malfoy House. She also maintains a set of rooms in the East wing, as she has since moving in. Needling to find out the respective sources of the Malfoys' new loves is met with tinkling laughter and good cheer. I Floo to my office utterly charmed._

 _My dear readers, if you ever do (Merlin, prevent it!) find yourself caught in a divorce, I pray proceed as a Malfoy would. Never have a seen such love at the end of a marriage. Never have I seen such friendship._

 _On further news concerning the Malfoy family, Lord Malfoy would like to announce that he has taken custody of Harry James Potter! Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, is son of James Charlus Potter and Lily Potter (nee Evans). Young Lord Potter will be living with his distant cousin Draco and family at the unplottable Malfoy Manor after being rescued from his horrific muggle relations. In response to the deplorable treatment of his nephew and our saviour, Lord Malfoy has put forth a new bill: the Magical Children's Act (for more information, turn to page 11). The Act is strongly fought by Light Leader Albus Dumbledore for reasons unknown to this reporter. Ask yourself this question, readers: if it was your child so endangered by the lax child protective measures we have now, would you stand for it? Yet, since it is not your child (thought it very well could be; turn to page 12 to find out how), ask yourself this: reader, what will you do about it?_

 _ **Welcome Back Harry Potter!**_

 _I would personally like to welcome back Harry Potter, the Boy Who Saved Us All. It is a new year and a new time, Harry, and I believe you and your friends are going to make the best of it. However, if you need anything, Harry, don not hesitate to ask me! I am just a buzz away!_

 _Your friend,_

 _Rita Skeeter._

Lavender put down _the Daily Prophet_ with a smirk. Rita, her beloved mentor, was back and she was already causing a stir. The children's movement was the perfect first strike, Lavender thought. As bad as it sounded, Harry's rough childhood made the perfect fire for reform; if there was one thing Rita had taught her, it was to strike when the iron was hot.

Lavender's smirk wilted, a swarm of old memories dulling her satisfaction. Rita had taught her so much; _given_ her so much. Without Rita Skeeter, Lavender doubted she would have survived. There hadn't been much of her left to survive _on_ , following the Second Wizarding War. It had left her in ruins.

Closing her eyes to the warmth of the Slytherin common room's fireplace, she let the memories wash over her.

The deconstruction of Lavender Brown had started with her parents. They had been Light, bitterly so; a pair of aurors. Her mother had died hunting the escaped Bellatrix Lestrange and by November of 97', he father had 'disappeared'. Without siblings to worry about, Lavender had thrown herself into Dumbledore's Army.

Eventually, that had meant throwing herself in the way of the Carrows.

The DA never wondered why the Carrows stopped looking for a culprit after the first few days. They merely assumed that they were that clever, that crafty. It never occurred to them that Carrows didn't care who bled for their rebellion as long as _someone_ did. To throw off the scent, Lavender would let herself be that person.

She had never told anyone about those nights, not even Parvati. They had been such good friends, but the words had tangled in Lavender's throat. How do you admit to someone who was so strong, so capable, that you let yourself be tortured just so it wasn't someone else?

Crisscrossing her old body were dozens of scars. They had filled her up like marker in a child's coloring book, chaotic and eager. By the time Greyback had her during the Battle, Lavender hadn't thought there had been anything left of her to take. She was Lavender Brown: a footnote who loved a main character too hard. Certainly, she couldn't be hurt any more. There wasn't enough depth in her personality.

She was wrong.

So. Terribly. Wrong.

From a logical point of view, Lavender could understand Fenrir Greyback's motives. He'd had his back to the wall, the defender of a persecuted people, so on and so forth. However, he had still joined the Death Eaters. He had still attacked a school. He had still allowed _hundreds_ to meet a horrible end. He had still found her on the battlefield and he had still nearly killed her. If it hadn't been for Bill Weasley, she didn't doubt he would have. Cut, bruised, and battered, Bill Weasley had seen her being mauled and launched a series of hexes she had never even heard of. Greyback, enraged, had changed targets in the nick of time.

Lavender came away with a face split in half: one side perfectly lovely, the other misshaped by a set of long slashes. They came down diagonally over her throat and through her chest, as though Greyback had been trying to claw out her heart. No healer had been able to fix them, only hand her a long list of glamours and tell her she was lucky. No, she had wanted to tell them. _Lucky_ was finding out the monster you pissed off was your life-mate. _Lucky_ was having the Boy Who Lived broker a deal that let your mate out of Azkaban in return for complete cooperation hunting rouge Death Eaters. _Lucky_ was being Bill Weasley, shyly kissing someone else's monster at the 1998 Wizarding Warriors' Gala.

Lavender had been crying in the bathroom, mid-panic attack, when Rita had found her.

"' _Oh, no. This just will not do.'"_ By the end of the hour, Lavender had found herself in a sleek living room, Firewhiskey in hand.

"' _You're not lucky, darling. You're just not dead yet.'"_ Lavender had kicked off her heels and sat with her toes curled under her. There was a new bottle of Firewhiskey on the living room table. Rita was smoking and Lavender was mesmerized by the grey curls against the ceiling.

"' _No one's listening? Of course not. They won't unless you make it about them.'"_ Rita was a muggleborn. Once, a man had told her she deserved to die for it and nearly shown her how her death would go. Now, she buried anyone who mentioned her blood status. Lavender listened and learned how.

'" _Tell me, sweet. When you look at yourself in the mirror, do you want to die?'"_

"' _No. I wouldn't mind if someone else did, though.'"_

A high, cackling laugh _. "'You're clever. Naive, but that's curable. Tell you what: you survive a week as my assistant, I'll offer you an apprenticeship.'"_

Lavender had lasted three years. She would have lasted longer but no one could make it to work the day after they died. Her last memory was holding Dennis Creevey's hand as the executioner took the floor out from under them. Dennis… they had called themselves married, but there had never been time for a ceremony. They had fallen into each other while they were on the run, desperate for something other than misery. He had been the first relationship Lavender had invested in since Ron Weasley. In the week they had spent returned, she yet to receive a _letter_ from him. Eyes drifting open, Lavender absently twirled a blonde lock around her manicured finger. She had begun to accept that she never would. That, like Susan, Lavender had returned without the man she loved.

Lavender curled her hands, wishing absently for a Firewhiskey, if just for the familiarity. She could feel the sorrow nipping at her but she pushed it down. Susan hadn't lost herself to the grief and neither had Percy, who had similarly returned alone. However, Lavender knew her strong front wouldn't last. She needed a way to purge herself of the emotion she felt in her bones. Lavender needed to write. She didn't much care where or what but she felt the itch under her skin. She was only eleven right now – much too young to write for the Daily Prophet or even Witch Weekly! She was a _child_. She could hardly go around reporting about a movement meant for her demographic.

Lavender nearly whined, but Slytherins didn't whine. Slytherins came up with _ideas_. So, Lavender brainstormed.

There was always fiction, she supposed. Yet, there was no dirty thrill to that. No triumphant crescendo of having all the pieces of a story first, free to spin however you liked. Lavender wanted to write for a newspaper the same way normal people wanted to breathe air. Something that didn't just put her thoughts in the spotlight but what was happening _around_ her. What was happening at – _Hogwarts._ Who would read _that_?

The parents would and, of course, the students, too. Information was always so sparse in this place of learning. Most of the 'facts' came from rumor mills that Lavender made a point of powering herself. Lavender grinned. An actual Hogwarts-centric newspaper would be _genius_. Blast the inner goings-on of Hogwarts to the students and the parents; though, slightly alter the parents' version (couldn't have them knowing _everything_ , now could they?)

All of it would have to be charmed extensively but that was no biggie. Glamours were Lavender's specialty.

Humming happily, Lavender smiled her way through the rest of _the Daily Prophet_ , editing the layout in her mind. Seamus, who sat across from Lavender, eyed her warily. After a minute or two of the _smiling,_ he'd had enough. "Stop that," he snapped. "I'm starting to get paranoid."

They were lounged about in the Slytherin common room, spread across the couches. Dinner had ended half-an-hour ago and they were all enjoying the last of their lazy Saturday. From beside Seamus, Dean chuckled, "Give it up, Lavender, before Seamus pulls out his wand and starts blasting suspicious-looking students."

As one, the assembled non-returned Slytherins shifted nervously.

Lavender gave Seamus a vicious smile and laughed when he reached for his wand in a faux-panic. "I'm kidding!" she giggled. Pitching her voice to carry throughout the room, Lavender put on her most seductive smirk. "I was smiling because I have an _amazing_ idea."

Sensing an opportunity, the room turned to covertly listen in. Lavender twirled her hair as if she hadn't noticed her new audience at all.

"And this idea is?" Harry asked, playing at boredom. Apparently, in Slytherin it was 'uncool' to be immediately interested in the words of you friends. Harry thought it was all a rather lot of effort. However, to be a good sport, on he went with the game.

"A newspaper!" Lavender beamed, "A hidden newspaper, one that the teachers couldn't read."

The air of listening in the room immediately jumped to one of intense interest. Softened by various privacy charms, little conversations began to spring across the room. Lavender tossed her hair proudly.

Looking up from the game of wizard's chess she was playing against Milli, Susan cocked her head thoughtfully. "It would be charmed with secrecy spells, of course?"

Lavender grinned savagely, "The best in my repertoire."

"The entirety of Hogwarts would be informed of all they needed to know," Percy mused. Noticing how members of several courts had gathered, numerous other Slytherin Elite had also taken a place by the fire. Currently, Percy was sandwiched between Adrien Pucey and Graham Montague.

Come to think of it, Percy reflected, that was often the case with him…

On the couch opposite him, Fred gave a devilish smirk. "Or all they _should_ know."

"I suppose this _would_ be something to do," Celeste Yaxley, seventh-year Queen of Slytherin, mused. "If only to pass the time." She sent a searching look around the room, her narrowed eyes encouraging everyone who met them to hastily agree.

"Pulling something on _Dumbledore_ is enticing," Terence Higgs put in. He couldn't help a disappointed frown when neither Weasley twin so much as glanced at him.

"A paper that would be a _tell-all,"_ Daphne added, grinning wickedly. "Expose exactly what our _beloved_ headmaster is doing with _our_ school."

All around her, the Slytherin Elite murmured agreement. Lavender grinned to herself. This discussion was going even better than she had thought it would!

Now, if she could just convince one of these rich kids to fund the project, they could really get started…

Uncaring that the Slytherin Elite was in deep conversation, Pansy Parkinson strutted up to the assembly. Dodging the various chairs and couches, she sidled up to Draco, who was doing his best to try and make Blaise laugh. Placing that day's copy of the Daily Prophet down in front of him, she grinned. "Hello, Drakie."

As one, the Slytherin Elite turned to eye the brash creature who had dared to approach them. Even before the arrival of the new, intimidating first-year court, no one had just come up and intruded on an Elite conversation. It just wasn't _done_. Let alone addressing a Malfoy so familiarly, as though there was a _contract_ between them.

With a few well-pointed glances, Celeste Yaxley signaled the elder courts to stand down. _Let this be a test_ , she thought. _If the first-years can handle this satisfactorily, then we'll really know if their bite is equal to their bark._

Inwardly, Draco groaned. His first real break since his death and, of course, Parkinson was there to ruin it. Putting on his coldest expression, Draco didn't even bother to stand and greet her. "Parkinson," he acknowledged frigidly, "Please remove yourself at once. This is an Elite matter."

Anyone with an ounce of social grace would have taken that for the dismissal it was and left. However, even as he turned to draw Blaise back into conversation, Draco knew he wasn't that fortunate. Pansy, the ladder-climber she was, would never go down that easily. It would almost be a credit to her character if she weren't so fucking _annoying_.

"I'm sure," Pansy purred, "I just wanted to say how _sorry_ I was about your parents' divorce." She placed a gentle hand on Draco's shoulder, her fingers curling into his skin. To anyone else, it would have seemed sympathetic. To Draco, it felt like an assault.

Beside him, Blaise made an enraged sound. Draco put a staying hand on his thigh. When people said Draco was the possessive one, they were right. However, they usually hadn't seen Blaise jealous, either.

"I mean, it must terrible, to watch them be so _disgraceful_ ," Pansy breathed, lips pouted, oblivious. " _The Prophet_ did a nice job of dressing it up but anyone with eyes can see the truth."

Draco shrugged her off. In one seamless move, he rose to his feet and took a threatening step toward her. Pansy skittered back awkwardly, eyes wide. Tilting his chin, Draco sneered. "And what might that be?"

"Well, that someone cheated, obviously," Pansy balked, "Not that I would ever think you would, Drakie –"

Draco's wand snapped out and silenced her.

Oh, shit, Milli thought. Across the chessboard, Susan snarled and pulled out her own wand, keeping it just below the table. Swallowing, Milli put on her most impressive scowl. Obviously, this wasn't just a little tiff anymore.

Sending a covert glance to Susan, who gave her a tiny nod, Milli cracked her knuckles. She was determined to help her new friends in any way they needed. She grinned – especially if that meant getting Parkinson back for being such a bitch.

By this point, the Slytherin common room was entirely silent. Most glared icily or just stared at Pansy, horrified. She dare imply that the _Malfoys_ , of all families, would be anything less than loyal to each other…? Was she _insane?_ Everyone knew that House Malfoy valued three things: family, beauty, and cunning. Everyone also knew that, much like the dragons on their family crest, the Malfoys guarded those three things jealously. Accuse a Malfoy of betraying you, lying to you, or otherwise being awful, sure – their lawyers would prove you wrong, but it wasn't an insult. Accuse them of betraying their family… now, _there_ was an action that could get you lost in the mashes, so to speak.

"You dare to presume," Draco hissed, "That you know me or mine?" Absently, he flicked a hand, gesturing for his court to stand down. He was pleased to see that they did so without hesitation, thought their wands remained visible. Obviously, he wasn't the only one who would like to put Parkinson in her place. "Well?" he sneered. "Have you no defense? Or are you simply so weak that you cannot throw off a low-level silencer?"

Pansy's face was turning purple with the effort of trying to do just that. Typically, Pansy would have managed it easily. Like all Dark children, she had been taught that magic was simply a battle of wills – the strongest will won. She had been raised accordingly and never had her personality failed her. However, trying to fight Draco's magic was like trying to breathe underwater.

Behind her, Pansy could hear the first-year court chuckling menacingly. Fighting the tears she could feel welling, she gave up battling the spell. Draco smirked at her.

"Just as I thought," he snickered, "A weak will to go with a weak mind." Abruptly, his expression turned cruel. He took a step closer to her and Pansy felt a cold chill run down her spine. Certainly, Draco had always been closed-off to her but never had his presence felt so _dangerous_.

Pansy felt a tear escape down her cheek. She had known Draco for years, been in every playgroup with him, attended ever function. _Something is wrong here,_ she thought. Draco had always been powerful, untouchable, but never had he been so _controlled_ in his fury. She had thought that she could simply needle him into a breakdown, then offer a consoling shoulder after she established dominance. That had been her mother's advice. _What did I miss?_ She thought hastily, _Oh, Merlin, what did I miss?_

"I won't bother demanding an honor duel of you, Parkinson," Draco snapped, dragging her back to the present. "You are too pathetic to waste the magic on. Take it as a show of pity and crawl back to your hole, rodent. If I ever hear such an insult from your lips again, I will not be so kind." Turning on his heel, Draco released the spell.

As though someone had snapped the strings holding her bound, Pansy found that she had her voice back. She gasped, her face paling at his threat. "But, Drakie!"

There were groans among the Elite. This girl just _didn't_ _learn_.

Not bothering to turn back to her again, Draco instead sat back down. He lounged purposefully, as though Pansy were of no more notice to him than a particularly irritating fly. From the corner of his eye, he could see the elder Slytherin courts watching him approvingly. "Avoid speaking to me as well, Parkinson. I deal with you in class only because I have to, so please banish any thought that I would ever be involved with you _otherwise_." Pansy flinched at his words.

"Now, Draco, don't be mean," Susan giggled. "Pansy knows good and well that Malfoys value beauty," Susan's smile turned bloodthirsty. "So it must have crossed her mind that a Malfoy would never fall for someone so _displeasing_."

The ruling girls tittered approvingly. Celeste nodded once in Susan's direction. Just what she liked to see in her Princesses; an appreciation for the sweet and vicious.

Harry, whose tension had gone unnoticed in the clamor, fingered his wand and smiled. If this was how Parkinson saw fit to react to Lucius and Narcissa acting outside of social norms, he could only imagine what she would have to say about Remus. Best to nip her influence in the bud before she had the chance to have any. With a flick of his wand, Parkinson's hair puffed up like she had been electrocuted, her front teeth jutting forward cartoonishly. A curly pug tail pushed out from under her skirt.

Parkinson shrieked. Looking pleased with his handy-work, Harry joined the gales of laughter. On his left, Neville gave him a knowing look. Grinning innocently, Harry settled to enjoy the rest of the show.

Ron feigned a yawn as he eyed the transformed Pansy Parkinson. The minute he had seen the curly tail, he had known Harry was behind her makeover. Honestly, Ron was proud of Harry's restraint. The last time Harry had felt threatened, the three auror units in question had found themselves in pieces on the Ministry's front steps.

"Parkinson," Ron drawled, playing at being bored. "You have no reason to be still standing here. All of us are already embarrassed for you. Leave and try not to make it worse for yourself."

Daphne and Parvati giggled. "Too late!"

Sobbing and humiliated, Pansy turned on her heel and ran. The Elite watched her go, savoring their win, before turning back to the newspaper. With an approving glance at the first-year court, Celeste offered to have her father fund them. Lavender smiled to herself as, not to appear weak, other students also began throwing around their family names.

By the time the fire had a chance to grow low, Lavender Brown had founded a newspaper. Feeling more peaceful than perhaps she ever had, she accepted Daphne's hand up and returned her dorm. She had a letter to pen.

Whatever happened after that, well. Lavender was sure she would be prepared for it.

After all, what did she have to lose?

* * *

 **So, firstly: I am terribly sorry for how long this took. This chapter has been driving me crazy for the better part of two weeks. Absolutely ridiculous how long this thing took, and I** _ **still**_ **don't like it very much *glares at word document.* I was also supposed to fit the flying chapter in here, but timelines kicked my ass, so next chapter! Gah.**

 **Moving on!**

 **Also, reviews, give yourselves a big round of applause! You people are bloody magnificent and the reason updates happen! I think I got back to all of you, but if I missed you know I adore you and am extremely appreciative!**

 **Edited 8/2/2017**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	9. A Little Peace

The owlery was fast becoming Harry's haven. Sure, throwing up a series of wards only to have to rip them down again was a pain in the arse but he had done worse for a little peace. In fact, he had killed the 'Darkest Wizard of Our Age' for a little peace. He hadn't found any, in the end, but it was the thought that counted.

Harry grimaced, his desire for a Firewhiskey spiking. There was _that_ mess to consider, too. Coming back in time meant reliving his _entire_ life, including the Second Wizarding War. Harry would have to kill Voldemort, _again_. From the moment he had realized what had happened on the train, the fact had niggled at him. He had tried to only think on it lightly but Harry could feel the timeline biting at his heels. Today was the day they had discovered Fluffy in his last life. If there were ever a day for the countdown to start, he had reached it.

Running a hand through his hair (still playfully green-streaked by Daphne), Harry sighed. Honestly, of all the unpleasant _shit_. Wasn't there a way to _avoid_ battling Voldemort? Could he not, just this once, ditch the prophecy _before_ disaster struck?

 _Yeah_ , the nasty little voice broke in. _You could run away, you_ _coward_ _. It's what you've always wanted to do, anyway._

Harry sucked a breath in between his teeth. Uncurling from his place on the window ledge, he found Hedwig and let his eyes focus on her. "What do you think, girl?" Harry asked, "How far would we get before anyone went looking?"

Hedwig hooted at him sharply. With an angry flap, she left her perch and landed on the arm Harry offered her, nipping his ear for his trouble. Obviously, Hedwig disapproved of his musings quite intensely. Chuckling at her antics, Harry gently stroked her ruffled feathers. After a bit of good-natured grumbling, she acquiesced to perching on his knee, content to let her idiot human pay her some affection.

With her soft mothering to keep him tethered, Harry let his eyes drift to the letter that had set him into hiding in the first place. Harry, who had spent the night before battling a fresh episode of insomnia, had been the only one up to receive it. The owl, an inky black creature obviously trained to wait quietly to be acknowledged, had flown off without waiting for a reply. Bloody miracle he had a habit of staring out the window, honestly. Harry would have never noticed the bird otherwise.

Feeling sickeningly reminiscent of the War, where such owl post measures had originated, Harry had secluded himself behind his bed curtains. After casting his usual mail-checking charms, he had taken a breath and cracked the poison-green seal. Inside had been an advanced addition of Monday morning's star article and a letter from Rita Skeeter. Within, she had summarized the paper, explained her logic, apologized for the hell it would wreak on his life, and wished him luck.

Harry had taken away two points from her letter: Sirius Black was a free man and had been since _Friday_. Not that anyone but _Rita Skeeter_ – Merlin, bless her – had thought that Harry should know.

Harry had left to go hide in the owlery within minutes of finishing her letter. Sans the Chamber of Secrets (which was still full of _Basilisk,_ Harry remembered), it was the only place he could think of where no one would look for him. Ordinarily, his dorm served him well enough – he trusted everyone inside with his life. His own control, however…

That Sunday night, Harry had felt a familiar rage bubbling under his skin. Confusion, wariness, and tinges of betrayal had swarmed in his veins, not quite drowned out by his crashing relief. His hands had trembled with the opposing forces. There were too many questions that stirred in his mind, too many _emotions_ running amuck – Harry could feel his magic snapping at its chain. Dangerous, for a wizard whose wild magic still broke the odd window at the age of twenty-one.

After casting a last lingering glance as his sleeping husbands, Harry had made his escape. His disappearance might worry them but he trusted them to understand. There were only so many ways Harry could sort out his head – with a lack of Firewhiskey, this was the best of them. Neville's attentive hands, Ron's observant eyes – they would be too much. It was like back in fifth year, when he had lost his temper in that cramped room in Number 12. The difference was that now, Harry knew to find himself some breathing room before he reached that point.

His thoughts swam madly as he crept to his haven, cloaked in war-grade disillusionments. Sirius was _free_ , away from Azkaban, and _safe_. _Alive_. It was more than Harry had any right to ask for. Truly, he should be singing the praises of Amelia Bones, the new Minister for Magic. She had exposed Fudge and Crouch, was a returned ( _obviously_ ), and was Susan's _aunt_ , for fuck's sake.

She had freed _Sirius_.

However, questions _ate_ at Harry. Why was he only finding out now and from _Rita Skeeter_? In addition, when, exactly, had Pettigrew been apprehended? As far as Harry knew, the rat was still in Ron's possession. Was Sirius returned? Was Remus with him? Did _Severus,_ Sirius' husband, know _any_ of this?

Ordinarily, Harry would explain the blackout away with the need for security. It would be horrific if the general public had information like this leaked to them. However, hadn't Rita just proven how easy it was to pass along a letter?

The entire situation reminded him too much of Dumbledore's tactics. Quick, clean manipulations in the branches, leaving his followers lost in chaos and faith. Harry wasn't being fair, assuming that Amelia Bones worked that way, but he didn't have much reference for her character. He had taken orders from her briefly when she was still head of the DMLE, but he had never met her directly. Being one of the first casualties of the Light Purges, he had never had much of a chance. He had no reason to trust her.

After finishing his wards on the owlery door, Harry had scourgify'd a sufficient spot and curled up. Frustrated with his circle of thought, he had turned to the newspaper. Already preoccupied with what Rita had written him, he should have held off. Being Harry Potter, he hadn't.

The entire edition was a literary memorial to Sirius Black. The entire front page was consumed by a juxtaposition of a young Sirius, stunning in auror robes, and what must have been a photo snapped post-Azkaban. " _Sirius Black: innocent, never even proven guilty!"_ wailed the headline. Standard columns (sports, advice, the funnies, etc.) seemed to exist just to shame their readers for not paying attention to the main story.

Harry's first thought was that he hadn't even known so many pictures of Sirius, Remus, and his parents had existed. Let alone ones with him in their arms. His second thought was, _fuck, was I ever smart not to read this in the dorms_. He had barely made it past the first paragraph before the tears had started. He couldn't recall having cried so hard since – well, since Sirius had _died_.

A good, logical person would have called it in at that point. He would have recognized that he wasn't _thinking_ so much as _self-destructing_. He would have woken his husbands and had a nice, long chat about his feelings. Such a person would have then contacted his extremely powerful new guardian and buggered off for the next few days of school. Gone to see the godfather he was reading about, perhaps. However, Harry had never much considered himself logical. That had been Hermione's domain and when that relationship turned out to be shit, Ron had taken over. Harry was a creature of emotion and quick decisions. Rational plans were not his strong point.

As for being good, well. Good people didn't have quite so much blood on their hands, he thought. Harry closed his eyes, age-old guilt clawing at his skin. Wherever he went, there was always so much _blood_.

Sirius had been – or rather, _was_ – a good person. When Harry had killed Voldemort, Sirius had taken him aside and comforted him. He had explained that, sometimes, the only option _was_ the lethal one. Sirius had looked him in the eye and made the distinction between _soldier_ and _killer_. Then Sirius had died, and Severus had died, and with them their unborn child. Harry was never able to meet his goddaughter. Harry had demanded revenge for that. He had joined to post-War effort to fight the remnants of Voldemort's forces, who the Ministry had singled out for Sirius and Severus' murders. No one had wanted to admit that the aurors just weren't trained enough to manage or that the hit wizards were stretched too thin, so anyone who had wanted to fight was encouraged to. Harry's fighters, the Dumbledore's Army members – DAMs – were in especially high-demand. Having fought with _'distinction'_ during the War, the hard cases were often sent their way. They had used to joke about how they were really the DAM-ned. They had won the Light the War and _still_ they were responsible for the shittiest jobs. Fred and George had even made up t-shirts. Harry thought he might have died in his.

With a bit of distance, Harry could recognize that serving in the auror camps had changed him. His first mission after the funerals, their target had raised her wand to Ron's throat. Harry had slit hers before she'd had the chance to issue her threat. He was never reprimanded. Dwalish had given him a grim nod and moved their unit onto the next target. When Dwalish died in a raid and Harry took over command, he was no different. Harry couldn't help but wonder what Sirius would see now when he looked in Harry's eyes: the soldier or the killer. More importantly, would he be able to forgive what he found?

During the Light Purges, when the aurors had become enemies, one had cornered Harry. He, Ron, and Neville had been defending a safe house the Ministry was determined to exterminate. It had been the third in that week. By the time Harry had arrived, Katie Bell was dead and six others were most of the way to joining her.

The auror was spewing the usual drivel – "You're a disgrace, Potter, you don't deserve the air you breathe" – Harry had mostly tuned him out, truth be told. Aurors had all become the same to him, just as Death Eaters had once been all the same. They even seemed to use the same insults. Yet this one had differed – "Your parents were Light! They might not have liked the Ministry but they sure wouldn't have killed for the Dark!"

In the end, Neville had wound up killing the man; took his head off with Gryffindor's sword. Harry was still covered in the man's blood when he had felt the first hysterical chuckle break over him. Neither Ron nor Neville had let him out of their sight for days afterward.

Later, Harry had rationalized the man's words away quite neatly. They would have understood, Harry had told himself. It was kill or be killed. There was no time for stunners when the other side had gallows up in Diagon Alley. Now that he was being faced with seeing Sirius again, though, Harry couldn't help but doubt. After all, back in the day the Order had only stunned. Wouldn't it be awful if, in some terrible twist of fate, Harry really _had_ succeeded the Dark Lord's reign of terror?

How could anyone, let alone Sirius, ever forgive him?

Eyes closed, Harry focused on his breathing instead of the ever-brightening sky. No one could be more grateful to have Sirius back than he was, but a guilty part of him still acknowledged how justifications were easier made to ghosts. The thought of seeing Sirius again left him shaking, elation at war with anxiety.

 _Please,_ Harry thought, desperate. _Don't let me have lost this second chance before it's even started._

Opening his eyes, Harry grimaced. From the motion below the owlery window, Harry knew that breakfast had already ended. No Pepper-Up for him, then. Not without enduring fifteen minutes of being a sideshow freak. Pulling on his balled up robes, he spelled out the wrinkles and took a breath. From experience, he knew that most classes were the home-free mark for avoiding gossip. He just needed to make sure he appeared the minute before and disappeared the minute after. Meal times would be a no-go. He would have to get the house elves to make him something.

Already, Harry could feel the beginnings of a migraine brewing from his headache. Resignation settled into his bones, as familiar as his wand. Par for the course, that. Shouldering his bag, Harry said his goodbyes to Hedwig and dodged into the first secret passageway he came across. He would manage this, he swore. Deal with Voldemort, the new Minister Bones, Dumbledore – even find a way to think of Sirius without his heart jumping into his throat.

In the end, he had done harder things for the sake of a little peace.

* * *

The moment Monday's _Daily Prophet l_ anded in his eggs, Ron Weasley knew that his day was going to be, irrevocably, a _shit_ day. The front page – boldly entitled ' _Sirius Black: innocent, never even proven guilty!'_ – had at least explained why Harry was missing. Right bit of panic that had caused, Ron thought wryly. Dean and Seamus had sought out Daphne and nearly had a rescue mission in progress before the other returned were even fully aware of what was going on. Eventually, Draco, Susan, and Ron had settled everyone down but not before a right bit of havoc took root.

Following their early-morning disaster, the first-year court had adjusted accordingly. It was almost soothing, the way they fell into step on the way to the Great Hall. Ron found himself reminded fondly of the DAMs, and later on, the Resistance. As if that were some kind of home to think back kindly on, he snorted.

However... it wasn't as though he were completely comfortable in this time, either.

War had made him complacent, Ron mused darkly. He was too used to the expectations that went with a war. Battles were a hellish cacophony of noise and blood but the times between... there was _predictability,_ there. You bandaged your injuries, spread any new intelligence, checked on your loved ones, and rehashed the next plan. They'd had no time for _any_ of that, yet. Just yesterday, _Amelia Bones_ had become Minister! Susan had been over the moon for her aunt but Ron had only felt wariness. No one knew all of the returned and it was dangerous to have people acting without any sort of synchronization. In addition, even the returned they knew of had all died at _different_ _times_. They weren't all functioning on the same _book_ , let alone the same _page_.

It was a dangerous way to be living, as the morning had so obviously proven. Before Ron, Susan, and Draco had managed to calm the whole mess down, Daphne and Parvati had nearly wound up dueling. Apparently, Parvati hadn't understood the urgency of the former-Resistance members and reacted badly to be woken up at, "The crack of fucking dawn because Potter took a walk." Susan had come between them, and before long, most of the first-year court was at each other's throats. Thank Merlin for silencing charms or a _very_ awkward conversation with the upper-year courts would have followed.

Neville had spent most of the morning looking on disapprovingly, but Ron could spot the worry in his eyes. Ron had given him a quick hand-squeeze, delighting in the blush that stole across Neville's cheeks. Personally, Ron had expected something like this morning to happen since they had come off the train. It was only logical, with so many personalities operating in close-quarters without the same information. Even Harry's morning wander had seemed predictable in that light. Confessing this had seemed to ease the tension in Neville's shoulders and before long the tightness in his expression had fallen away, too

Now that he knew Sirius' release was splashed all over the papers, Ron allowed himself a little more room to worry over Harry. Additionally, there was the problem of Pettigrew – he was still in Ron's pocket, body-bound, so why were the papers saying he had been Kissed? Yet more proof that the returned needed to sort their shit out. Yet, Ron still knew that he should be ecstatic that these were the only problems to crop up since returning. All possibilities considered, their transition to the past had been _unbelievably_ smooth.

Neville was laughing and joking, spending every spare minute in the greenhouses, brimming with confidence Ron had never seen before. Ron found himself often with Draco, Blaise, Daphne, and Susan, sequestered in desolate library corners, heads together as they plotted their domination of Slytherin House. Lavender, Theo, and Parvati had made a personal mission of getting the Hogwarts newspaper put together with the upper years, including Percy and Lee Jordan. Seamus and Dean had already set up a new Hogsmead smuggling ring with the twins, and Oliver was, of course, absorbed in co-captaining the Slytherin Quidditch team with Marcus.

Harry… Ron bit his lip. Harry was less smooth. Harry _fluttered_ , more often than not. He would spend afternoons in the library with Ron, streaked with mud from helping Neville in the morning. In the evenings he would sit in the common room, often with some tome, content to join whoever called out to him first. However, there were nights he disappeared – sometimes with his fighters, sometimes not – and Ron knew that if he went looking, he would find Harry in the Room of Requirement.

Ron hadn't dared to follow him, yet. He wasn't quite sure what that said about his character and Ron was content not to figure it out. He just wanted some _peace_ , dammit. A minute of normalcy, of just being a _regular kid_. Harry, with his clandestine training bouts and never-ending stack of books from the Hogwarts Library (and Merlin, how many times had they wished for access to that library when they were on the run?) – was _preparing_.

Absently, Ron wondered when Harry had given up on being normal.

Smothering a sigh, Ron tried to swallow the bitterness he could feel building in his mouth. Mentally, he had given the returned two months before they would have to think seriously. Ron was already working with Severus – the evening of November ninth, the returned would gather, preferably somewhere muggle, and share their experiences. Hogwarts was too risky, what with Dumbledore in residence. While he trusted their wards for things like Harry's training routines and their Slytherin House schemes, the time-traveling and the dawning war were too high-profile. They had to wait. And if the thought of doing it any sooner, of making that next step towards war any quicker, gave Ron cold sweats, well, then that was fucking personal, wasn't it?

Ron swallowed. He just wanted to cling to this strange peace a little bit longer. Just the thought of his father's situation was enough to make him feel sick, still. He couldn't handle anymore.

Letters sent by Arthur Weasley were – _strange_. Everything about them was just slightly off. Word choice, paragraph length, even the handwriting, was just slightly more formal. They were still kind, still affectionate, and still something his father would write, but it was as if they were corrected by an editor before they were sent. They were wittier, too. Sarcastic. And sometimes, they included drawings. Little goofy cartoons of political figures or people his family knew.

There had been one letter about how atrociously boring Lucius Malfoy was about pureblood politics (just like his son, Ron had thought, amused). The doodle had featured a tiny Lucius atop a stack of books, a long, curling peacock feather behind one ear, eyes closed in mid-oration. Just behind him was an Arthur Weasley doodle, tip-toeing away. The drawing was charmed so that Arthur would turn every so often to shush the viewer before continuing to creep away.

Ron had never thought of his dad as an artist, let alone a _funny_ one. Too clumsy, for one, and too easily distracted. With a guilty twinge, Ron supposed that was the Amortentia in action. Looking at the twins, Ron guessed it at least made sense where their personalities came from.

He should be eager to know more about these quirks, Ron knew. Relieved, even. The twins certainly were, and Percy said that these new sides of their father's character were all signs of his fast recovery. You couldn't imagine how happy Ron was about that. Yet… he felt _guilty_ , alright?

Ever since he had met Harry, Ron had become accustomed to helping people. To foiling bad guys and, at the very least, noticing when something was fucked up. However, not _once_ did he see how badly his father was suffering. Fuck, they _studied_ Amortentia in Potions! Why hadn't he noticed? Why hadn't he _helped_? Voldemort couldn't steal a lolly without the fucking "Golden Trio" figuring it out, but Ron's own father could languish in a fucking half-life for twenty _years_. Arthur Weasley had died in his last life, still falsely obsessed with his murderer.

Idly, Ron wondered if this was, perhaps, how a man began to hate himself.

)()()()(

As the newspapers made their way through the school, Ron resigned himself to spending the rest of breakfast scaring nosy gossips into submission. He was right to, but after twenty-ish minutes he snuck out with Neville to go hunt down their future-husband. Harry, of course, had popped into existence exactly where he should have been at the time – outside Charms class, waiting for the door to open – and communicated mostly in throwaway sentences from that point forward.

If Ron heard 'I'm fine, just tired' one more time, he might actually scream. Harry was so obviously _not fine_. He hid it well – hid it excellently, actually - but Ron knew him better than that. Better than anyone else, perhaps, with the virtue of seven years of friendship on top of everything else. Harry had his mission face on. Stupidly, Ron had hoped that this reboot would mean that he would never have to see that expression again.

Fighting the worry now clawing at his heart, Ron had put his head down and trudged through the day. He had thought that maybe he and Neville would be able to corner Harry at lunch, but no luck. Now, the late-afternoon sun shone down on him balefully as the first-year Slytherins hurried onto the grounds for their first flying lesson.

"Being in the air will help," Ron murmured to Neville as they neared the field. "Has since we were kids."

Neville snorted. "The last time we were on a broom, we were flying towards our deaths."

Ron laughed, manic. "Yeah, well, it's not like we died on the brooms."

Neville smiled, the first Ron had seen all day, and moved to poke Ron in the side. Ron laughed again, a bit more honestly this time, and made to returned the favour when he saw–

Hermione Granger. Of fucking course. Ron nearly groaned aloud.

All the Slytherins first-years had taken to avoiding Hermione Granger. Once she had discovered her deficiency in Potions, she had become whiny and even more arrogant in all her other classes. Even the first-year Hufflepuffs, who she was commonly lumped with now that the Slytherins had moved on to more advanced work, were all but ready to rally against having her included in their classes.

 _Maybe that's why we got stuck with her for flying,_ Ron thought petulantly.

Hermione stood, reading, beside two neat lines of broomsticks. When she caught sight of the Slytherins, she sauntered over and smiled sweetly – at _Ron_.

 _And here I thought this day couldn't get any worse,_ Ron thought, stupefied.

"Hello, Ronald," Granger cooed, tossing her great mass of hair over her shoulder.

The first thing that came to Parvati's mind was: what the _hell?_ From the reactions around her, she wasn't the only one, either. Tracy Davis' eyes bulged out of her head, Dean blinked owlishly, and Daphne had her nose scrunched up as though she had smelt something rotten.

Before anyone had a chance to react, Madam Hooch strutted onto the field. "Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick."

Parvati glanced down at her broom. The poor thing looked like someone had been using it to sweep up the Great Hall after dinner.

Madam Hooch rattled off some instructions and before long they were all calling for their brooms. Parvati's broom jumped into her hand at once, as did all the other Slytherin's. She smiled poison at Hermione, who stood directly in front of her. The bitch had tried to stand in front of Ron, but he had all but run away, leaving Parvati in his place. Hermione's broom had barely twitched.

After a few more frustrated attempts, Hermione's broom finally meandered into her hand. Upon contact, Hermione shot Parvati a smug look. On a fluke that did, in Parvati's opinion, prove the existence of several deities, they locked eyes.

Grinning, Parvati drew upon her skills at Legilimency. Within the next second, she was buried deep in Hermione Granger's mind. What she found _enraged_ her.

Granger was thinking about Ron or rather, how to _use_ Ron to become Lady Prewett. The idea had been put in place by Molly No-Name. The bitch had sent fudge to congratulate Granger on being the only new Gryffindor; after that, Hermione and Molly began talking about the future.

Hermione Granger wanted to be treated as she believed she always should have been: specially. Becoming a witch had only increased her belief and Ron Weasley-Prewett was just her ticket. His mother had even said so! Her future mother-in-law had then suggested a potion to help her along the way…

Horrified, Parvati pulled out of Hermione's mind. The _things_ this girl wanted to do to their world – they made Parvati _ill_. Hiding a snarl behind a challenging smile, Parvati watched Hermione from the corner of her eye. If Parvati had her way, Hermione Granger wasn't going to make it off the pitch.

Madam Hooch was rambling again, but Parvati wasn't listening. As Hermione Granger climbed onto her broom, Parvati glared ferociously at it. Before long, she could feel her magic weaving into a curse around the broom.

"What are you doing?" Daphne hissed beside her.

"Fixing a problem," Parvati growled back.

Suddenly, Hermione's broom pushed off the ground. "Come back, girl!" Madam Hooch shouted, but Hermione didn't. She was rising up, making scared little noises louder as she hit ten feet, twenty.

"Oh no!" Parvati moaned sarcastically.

The Slytherins watched gape-mouthed as Hermione's scared white face looked down at the ground falling away. With a gasp, she slipped sideways off the broom and —

WHAM!

With a thud and a nasty crack, Hermione Granger lay face down on the grass in a heap. In an instant, Madam Hooch was bending over Hermione, her face as white as Hermione's.

"Broken wrist," Parvati heard Hooch mutter. Too bad it wasn't her neck, Parvati thought peevishly. "Come on, girl — it's all right, up you get."

Hooch turned to the rest of the class. "I will be taking Miss Granger to the hospital wing. No one move."

Hermione, her face tear-streaked, hobbled off with Madam Hooch. As soon as they were out of earshot, Parvati burst into laughter.

"What was that about?" Daphne asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Parvati smirked at her. Ever since their early morning _tiff_ , Parvati had found that she rather liked pushing Daphne's buttons. She sort of hoped Daphne enjoyed pushing hers right back.

"You cursed her broom!" Tracy Davis squawked, breaking the tension Parvati had been enjoying. "I saw you!"

The other first-years huddled around Parvati, awaiting an explanation. Tilting her chin up, Parvati sneered. "My father taught me Legilimency before coming here," she said. "On a lark, I thought I'd take a little look-see through Granger's head. See if I couldn't find what made her such a pain in the arse. Instead, I found out she's planning on using a love potion on Ron."

The words were enough to knock the breath out of the assembled Slytherins. Even Parkinson gasped, a hand over her mouth. Even if it meant getting her way with Draco, Pansy would _never_ have done something so ghastly.

"Horrible," Pansy whispered quietly, though everyone heard her. "That's _horrible_."

The group exchanged nods. Neville had his arm tight around Ron's shoulders and Harry had gone still with rage. "She could fucking _try_ ," Harry snarled, and let himself be tucked Ron's side for the first time that day.

"What are we going to do about it, then?" Parvati asked. Her smirk returned as she saw the bloodlust in the eyes of her year-mates.

After dinner, the Elite once again gathered in the Slytherin common room. Nestled in the best privacy wards of the last thousand-years, Parvati informed the older Elite of what had happened during flying class. Slack jaws and boiling rage surged around the room.

"That filthy little mudblood!" Celeste Yaxley snarled, before pausing. She arched a brow at Parvati. "Wait, did you mean to kill her?"

All eyes once again went to Parvati, who arched a brow back. "I wouldn't say so," she murmured delicately. The elder Elite traded considering glances.

Murder wasn't uncommon in Dark families, particularly over such a hefty threat. Yet, a first year from a Grey family striking so coldly – it was admirable. A brilliant way to claim notice in Dark society; particularly as the girl had struck in the name of one of her court leaders. Loyalty was highly valued in the shadows.

Celeste Yaxley felt a smile pull at her lips. Her father had been right to hold to the Dark, if this generation of firsties was anything to go by.

"Regardless, she can't get away with this," Percy Weasley hissed, bringing a swift death the contemplated silence that had descended on the room. "I won't have an active threat to my family freely _roaming_ the halls." At least, not again, Percy thought darkly. He couldn't quite remember ever having felt so _angry_ before. He was just so fucking _done_ with being attacked constantly. Percy itched to be the one doing the damage.

When he cast them a glance, he found that Adrien and Graham both looked taken aback by the venom in his voice. However, they returned the tired smile he sent them as discussion broke out. Percy wasn't entirely sure why, but that soothed some of his rage.

The sight of his baby brother, sandwiched safely between his two deadly future-husbands, was reassuring in its own right.

"Do we tell Professor Snape?" Milli queried cautiously. She was still unused to being considered one of the Elite. Beside her, Susan gave her an approving look.

"Yes," Draco smiled slyly. His eyes fell to his stone-faced best friend, his bloodthirsty cousin, and the white-knuckled Neville. To the glittering, interested eyes of the elder Elite. "We'll tell him that we will handle it _ourselves_."

A flickering of dark smiles slid around the room, the message ringing loud and clear: the Slytherin Elite were taking this personally. Hermione Granger was currently living her final month.

* * *

 **Well, I didn't think a chapter could be harder than the last one, but, Hell, I was proven wrong. Sorry, my darlings. I was really hoping to give a little more emotional reference with this chapter, and also show how the students are trying to settle in. A little timeline clarification and world building was chucked in, too. I've recently edited this over (8/20/2017) to convey that better. Hopefully that came across enjoyably and coherently. Anyway, if you have questions, don't be afraid to drop me a message! I love your reviews and I do my best to answer everything thrown my way! I love hearing from you guys! It's what keeps me going!**

 **Also, thank you to the Guests who review but I can't answer to! You guys are just as amazing!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	10. Innocent Children

Over the next week, rumors about Hermione Granger spread like Fiendfyre. In History of Magic, Slytherin girls whispered loudly about how she was caught with a love potion in hand. The next row up, their Hufflepuff classmates nearly bent backward craning to hear them better. The news spread to the Ravenclaws, who tittered meanly in the library how that couldn't possibly have been the _only_ cheating Granger was involved in. Boys in the hallway used her to stroke their egos, claiming casually that she came onto them all the time. No one called them on it; after all, everyone knew she was _that_ kind of girl. Didn't you hear? She just _threw_ herself at Draco Malfoy!

Pansy Parkinson was greatly pleased with this tactic and no one put more effort into it than she did. The Draco Malfoy Story was one of her finest pieces of work, if she did say so herself; she had even managed to infiltrate the _Gryffindors_ with it. By October, her hard work even had the _Elite_ nodding approvingly! Breathing a sigh of relief, Pansy sunk back into the shadows. There, she watched safely as her poison dispersed among the populous. No one was talking about her anymore, she thought contently. _Hermione Granger_ was the new social pariah. No pureblood or half-blood would get within three feet of her and even the other muggleborns shot her disgusted looks.

Glancing up sharply as a fresh wave of snickers broke out to her left, Hermione Granger sighed. She was horrified that some of the rumours came so close to the truth but a comforting letter from Molly kept her hopes up. She was still destined to be the next Lady Prewett. She just had to keep her head up and be smart, Hermione thought. She smirked to herself – no _problem_.

At the Slytherin table, Neville narrowed his eyes at the smirk on Hermione Granger's face. He couldn't deny the bloodlust anything but her abject misery stirred in him. Had he been anywhere but the middle of the Great Hall, Neville wasn't confident he could have resisted sending a hex her way. However, the Slytherin Elite had decided that the Granger Situation was to be dealt with _clandestinely_. Tortured screaming wasn't especially subtle and that was really the only sort of hex Neville bothered with anymore. Besides, the mood was quite jovial among the assembled courts and he didn't much want to wreck it. Deciding to write off the bitch's moment of fortitude as a fluke, Neville was in the middle of a story about his recent battle with a cranky Venomous Tentacula – poor dear was teething – when the mail owls flooded into the Great Hall.

As usual, everyone's attention was caught for a moment. However, this time it was kept by a long, thin package carried by six large screech owls.

Privately, Neville grinned. He would recognize the shape of that package any day. From the blooming smile on Ron's face, he did as well. Still, Harry managed to look frankly amazed when the owls soared down and dropped the package right in front of him, knocking his eggs to the floor. Those six had hardly flown out of the way when another owl dropped a letter on top of the parcel.

Neville had to actively resist an 'I told you so!' as he watched Harry carefully open the letter. Harry had been utterly sure he would have to wait for second-year to try out for the team without McGonagall to pull strings. Apparently, he had forgotten the ambition of Slytherin's Head of House.

It would be nice to see Harry truly in the air again, Neville thought. It had been too long since Harry had been on a broom for anything but war. Flying lessons, Neville thought, couldn't even come close to the rush a game could provide. Especially with Granger there during the lessons, attempting to molest Ron like a particularly poisonous slug.

Now, Neville had never considered himself an especially violent person – rather, between the three of them, Neville had thought himself the most reasonable one. That being said, Neville was also a gardener. His eye for weeds and malignant growths was precise, his mercy for such pests nonexistent. Perhaps that was why he had such an affinity for Gryffindor's sword. The blade was rather like a beautiful, ornate pair of shears, slicing through the aphids and wireworms of their world. Neville would rather like to slice it through Granger's throat but alas, not everyone saw the world so clearly.

Sucking back his displeasure, Neville tried to let the table's mood influence him. In rare moments like these, you almost couldn't notice the tension he and his husbands carried. Everything was still not quite right between them, Neville thought. He found his gaze catching often on the fake edges of Harry's smile or the shadows under Ron's eyes. He often felt similar eyes on his own person; worrying, assessing, wondering. However, the love potion threat had, for the moment, trumped all. Both Neville and Harry had taken to sticking as close to Ron as propriety would allow and, within their own dorm, as close as their pajamas permitted. Thank Merlin they were small enough as eleven-year-olds to fit comfortably in one bed. With an active threat against Ron, Neville knew neither he nor Harry would have been able to sleep without counting his heartbeats.

Presently, Harry ripped open the letter, leaving the anticipation of the package to build. Which, reading over his shoulder, Neville thought was lucky, as the letter said:

 _DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE._

 _It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand. Welcome to the team, Potter. Let's put your talent to good use._

 _Professor Snape_

 _PS:_

 _I will be picking up Ron's rat later this evening._

Hm, Harry thought. So Pettigrew _hadn't_ been picked up yet. Did Rita know or was Minister Bones pulling the wool over everyone's eyes? Deciding to brush that thought to the side for now, Harry didn't bother hiding his glee as he handed the note to Ron. He was back on the team! The thought of flying in a game again nearly made him _giddy_.

"Congrats, Harry!" Ron grinned, pulling his love into a tight, reluctantly appropriate hug. 'Get the marriage contract signed' bumped up even higher on Ron's list of things-to-do.

On Harry's other side, Neville also gave his congratulations. "I knew you were too good for Professor Snape to ignore," Neville added winningly. The rest of the Slytherin Elite took turns offering their well-wishes, Lavender going so far as to snap a picture with a camera no one had any clue how she'd procured.

"For the newspaper," Lavender added sweetly. Absently, Neville wondered if he'd be able to convince her to throw a few copies his and Ron's way. Merlin knew they hadn't had any slice-of-life photos the last time around – no time to take any if they weren't in some way propaganda-driven.

"I'll see you on the pitch at eight, Potter!" Marcus Flint called, slinging his arm around Oliver Wood. It was quiet, still, but no secret that they had signed a contract over the weekend. The obsidian Flint Heir's ring glinted darkly on Oliver's finger, a place keeper until the pair could pick out their own set – a very romantic gesture. Neville couldn't help but envy them a little. "There's no way Gryffindor is beating us this year," Marcus laughed.

"Of course not," Cassius Warrington added. "We stole all their best players and best of all, the announcer." He grinned roguishly at Lee Jordan, who smiled back through a vivid blush.

Neville raised an eyebrow: how _interesting_. He didn't remember that happening in their last life. If he remembered correctly, Lee had managed to escape to muggle Northern Ireland during the Purges, where he had continued to run his rebel wireless show and organize various escapes from Wizarding Britain. Cassius Warrington had left for the Magical United States following the Final Battle - with the MUSA having no extradition treaty with Wizarding Britain, he had remained one of the few uncaught Death Eaters. When the Purges began, he had helped numerous Dark magicals into the States.

As far as Neville knew, they had never so much as shared a conversation. Now, they were toeing the edge of pureblood propriety. For Cassius, at least, that must be a big deal. _Just another sign how much we've already changed the world_ , Neville mused.

Oblivious to Neville's reflections, the Slytherin table roared with laughter. Or, at least, the original Slytherins did. The transfers, the former-Gryffindors especially, all felt a little bad. Angelina and Alicia still weren't speaking to the twins or Lee – not even using Arthur Weasley's insistence on the resorting was enough to sooth the girls' feelings of betrayal. Oliver Wood, who had no such excuse, seemed to be dead to them.

Biting his lip against the sudden awkwardness, Harry plucked the wrapped broomstick from the table and stood. "I better get this back to the dorms before classes start," he announced. Pulling a grin, Harry added teasingly, "Anyone who wants to come admire it before first period is welcome to join."

Laughing, the Quidditch-conscious Elite gathered their things and quickly left the hall, eager to snatch a look before their first classes. However, halfway across the entrance hall they found their way barred by Hermione Granger.

Hermione upturned her nose, "You'll be in for it this time, Potter. I _know_ first-years aren't allowed broomsticks."

Before Harry could put Hermione in her place, his eyes flashing dangerously, Professor Flitwick appeared at Draco's elbow. "Now, what's going on here?" he squeaked.

"Potter's been sent a broomstick, Professor," said Hermione quickly.

"Yes, yes, that's right," said Professor Flitwick, beaming at Harry. "Professor Snape told me all about the special circumstances, Mr. Potter. Tell me, what model?"

The Slytherins shared a smirk, watching with predatory glee as Granger's jaw fell. Harry all but preened, more from the disgruntled look on Granger's face than any sort of personal pride.

"A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir," Harry answered, fighting back laughter.

Professor Flitwick waved them on cheerfully after that, tactfully ignoring the strangled cackles that floated his way once the gang had turned down the hall. Shaking his head fondly at the eccentricities of teenagers, Flitwick began the walk back to his classroom. Swept up in his own thoughts, he missed the look of black rage that swam across Hermione Granger's face.

* * *

The rest of September drifted by quietly. Pettigrew had been handed over that very night, stunned while still in rat form. Harry had itched to bring up the delay, but was hesitant. No one was quite sure what methods Dumbledore had to keep tabs on the school but the returned all agreed that Hogwarts was not a safe place to discuss their more, er, _time-sensitive_ plots. Even the Granger Situation, technically a problem unique to the entire Slytherin Elite, not the returned, was handled with a gag-order.

The way they were operating, Harry thought, the worst Slytherin could be accused of was malicious bullying. Not strange, coming from Slytherin House. Not a particular concern of the staff, either, judging by what he and Malfoy had pulled on each other during their Hogwarts years. Pansy Parkinson had also done a hell of a job with her rumours. When Hermione Granger finally did die, the entire student body would be implicated. Singling out one group who might have had problems with the departed Miss Granger would be virtually impossible.

There was an evil beauty to the setup, Harry would admit. No honor or dignity, but Harry couldn't stir himself to mind. Whatever kept Ron the safest, he would throw all his power behind. Harry had been sickened to realize that many of the Elite involved were open to killing Granger because they knew her death would make them stand out in the Dark, but even that had lost its sting. He caught the way Granger looked at Ron, as though he were an animal to hunt. Harry was determined to have her head mounted before she had a chance to take a shot.

Abruptly, Harry found himself pulled back against a soft chest. Arms wound around his waist and when Harry snapped his eyes up, they met Neville's twinkling brown ones in the mirror. The mirror he had been staring into for the last fifteen minutes, Harry thought with a blink. Neville pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

"Figured I should come save you from the mirror before you fell into another world," Neville teased. He had rested his chin on Harry's shoulder, seeming to take as much comfort from the hold as Harry was.

Harry hummed absently, letting his head flop back. He was coming to live for these scattered moments of quiet in their dorm room. "I think we already managed that."

Neville grinned, quick and wicked, and planted another, wetter kiss on Harry's neck. Harry couldn't stop a squawk of surprise, kicking off a string of warm chuckles from Neville.

"That we have, love," Neville chirped winningly. "Now, let's get a move on. Ron's already waxing poetic about tonight's feast. If I have to listen to one more awful rhyme for 'pumpkin pasty' I'm going to scream."

Laughing, Harry straightened the last of his uniform and was soon winding his way to the Great Hall with the rest of his court. Halloween morning had dawned cold and curt on the school, but the delicious smell of baking pumpkin wafting through the corridors was enough to warm even the bitterest attitude. Even better, Professor Flitwick had announced in Charms that he thought they were ready to start making objects fly. They had all been dying to try since they had seen him make Neville's toad zoom around the classroom last lesson. Ron's glee had been obvious; his shouts of "Kill it, Professor! Kill it!" had rung out joyfully over the general rumble.

Professor Flitwick put the class into pairs to practice. Harry partnered with Seamus Finnegan, more on a lark than anything else. At the desk beside him, Neville set up shop with Dean. Harry was just looking to see who Ron had wound up with when Professor Flitwick started giving instructions.

()()()()()

"You know, Ronald," Hermione Granger started once Professor Flitwick had quieted. She couldn't believe her luck that they had been paired together! Lord knew that Ron would have never accepted it if they hadn't been pushed together by Flitwick as the last ones left. "You can't believe those vicious rumors going around."

Ron, who was obviously hated by any and all celestial powers, grunted. It was hard to tell if Ron had ever been angrier at his luck. Rolling his eyes as she twittered on, he turned his back and forced himself to focus on something that didn't stir homicidal urges.

(Like how adorable Neville looked trying to coax Dean away from flirting with Seamus long enough to spit out the charm they had been assigned. Or Harry's snickers as Seamus 'accidently' lit Dean and Neville's feather on fire. "Sorry, Nev," Seamus grinned, "Looks like you got nothing left to work with. I'll handle Dean while you find a new one."

"Oh, you'll handle him all right," Neville snarked, "Probably all night long if we didn't share a room."

The group burst into laughter.)

Noticing how Ron was paying not one whit of attention to her, Hermione glared. Catching herself, she shook away her blooming irritation and smiled. God, she hoped Molly was right and her idiot son would be more tolerable once Hermione got the potion in him. She wasn't sure she could handle his tasteless attitude for much longer. "You know," Hermione said sweetly, "I think spending more time together is a good idea for us." She let her voice drop lower. "It would certainly give you a chance to see the _real_ me."

Ron grunted disinterestedly.

Apparently the boy was too dense to catch what she was offering, Hermione thought despairingly. A girl could only flutter her lashes so much and her blouse already showed the edge of her bra. Perhaps she should have followed Molly's first suggestion and dosed him right off the bat. Tonight, Hermione swore, she would do it tonight. While the school continued with their mockery of her, Hermione had worked hard to get the devotion of the House Elves. Once she had figured out that the pathetic little things _enjoyed_ being overworked, it was easy. She had already done a test run with a dose of watered-down Pepper-Up; she just had to switch it out for the real thing.

She would probably have to miss the rest of the day's classes, she thought with a grimace. The Amortentia would need to be babysat through the last phase, then she could bottle it. If all went well, she could have the House Elves add it to dessert. Unfortunately, that meant spending the rest of her afternoon listening to Moaning Myrtle whine on, but such sacrifices must be made for love. Even the false, more efficient sort.

Sighing, Hermione turned back to their feather. This spell, at least, had been no problem. Just another example of her ability once she had the proper instruction, Hermione thought, still bitter over her Potions embarrassment. "You know, even your mother, who I've been talking to, thinks we'd make a charming pair," she added idly.

Ron spun to face her, his mouth twitching angrily. "Listen carefully, you narcissistic, arrogant girl," he hissed at her. Hermione stumbled back in shock, her rising feather floating uselessly to the ground. "I don't care what my bitch of mother thinks," he carried on. "She is not allowed within twenty feet of me or my brothers. So you can take whatever she said to you and go to _hell_!"

With that, he flicked his wand and snapped, "Wingardium Leviosa!" Their feather rose from the floor where it had fallen and hovered about four feet above their heads.

"Oh, well done!" cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. "Everyone see here, Mr. Weasley-Prewett's done it!"

Ron shot her one last sneering, ugly look before turning on his heel and storming away. Hermione made to follow, but the other Slytherins surrounded Ron like debris about the eye of a twister. She daren't go closer lest one of those _barbarians_ try to curse her.

Huffing, Hermione flopped down at her desk and glared out the window. _Soon_ , she thought, _you won't be running from me, Ron Weasley. Soon, you won't ever want to_ _leave me_ _._

Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the class. "Honestly, it's no wonder she has to resort to love potions. She's a fucking nightmare to be around," he snarled.

Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past him. It was Hermione. Harry couldn't catch a glimpse of her face — probably in tears, just like last time. How pathetic, he thought amusedly.

"I think she heard you," Daphne sneered.

"So?" said Ron. "All the better if she decides to leave me the fuck alone."

Hermione Granger didn't turn up for the next class and wasn't seen all afternoon. On their way down to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, the court overheard Angelina telling Alicia that Hermione was crying in the girls' bathroom and wanted to be left alone.

The Slytherins looked gleeful at this but a moment later they had entered the Great Hall, where the Halloween decorations put Hermione Granger out of their minds. No one managed holidays on the same level as Hogwarts, Harry thought. A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling while a thousand more swooped over the tables, making the candles in the pumpkins stutter. Across the ceiling swirled a mass of dark clouds, parting periodically to show an eerie full moon and a sky full of stars. Thunder rumbled menacingly and Daphne grinned as a bolt of lightning temporarily lit up the room.

Dean was just helping himself to a baked potato when Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the Hall, his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore's chair, slumped against the table, and gasped, "Troll — in the dungeons — thought you ought to know." He then sank to the floor in a dead faint. Just as he had the last time, Harry thought, barely holding back a roll of his eyes.

The uproar was instantaneous, also as it had been last time. As the noise rose, Ron, Harry, and Draco shared pointed looks. They couldn't have asked for a better opportunity to do away with Granger – now to convince the other Elite of that.

Once again, it took several purple firecrackers exploding from the end of Professor Dumbledore's wand to bring silence. "Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your Houses back to your dormitories immediately!"

Percy sighed. He hated to admit it but he really missed being a prefect. At least he could take comfort in knowing that Adrien took just as much pride in his position as Percy had. He looked rather fit doing it, too, Percy thought. About as much as Graham did, strutting around in his new Quidditch uniform – he had just made the team. Idly, Percy wondered if Adrien looked just as smashing in his.

Wait, Percy frowned, since when had he-?

"Follow me!" Adrien called, breaking Percy from his thoughts. "We head to the library! I repeat, we head to the library, not the dungeons! And make sure to stick together! The last thing we need is for someone to pull a Gryffindor and end up meeting the troll."

Harry and Ron shared a look. Ron smirked. Pull a Gryffindor, did he say?

"How could a troll get in?" Milli asked as they climbed up the stairs.

"Don't ask me, they're supposed to be really stupid," said Adrien. He was at the front of the column, using a simple mirror charm to check the halls before making the next turn. Logically, he knew that he would smell the creature before he would see it but it never hurt to be careful.

"Maybe Peeves let it in for a Halloween joke," Graham grimaced. He stood at Adrien's side, wand in hand. Even as rivals in love, he would hardly let his best friend accidently stumble onto a troll without him. The thought made him feel sick. Adrien gave him a little smile which Graham returned happily.

They passed different groups of people hurrying in different directions. As they jostled their way through a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs and into the library (Honestly, Adrien thought, Dumbledore was something else: the Slytherin dormitories were _in_ the dungeons!) Harry grabbed Ron's arm. Pulling him into a conveniently empty alcove, Harry gestured to the other Elite he spotted.

When a sufficient number of them had gathered and the appropriate silencers had gone up, Harry said, "I've just thought — _Granger_."

Celeste Yaxley eyed him, "What about the mudblood?"

"She's in the girl's bathroom, first floor," Harry answered. "I overheard the Gryffindor girls going on about how she'd been in there crying all day. She'll probably meet up with the Troll."

"And?" Celeste asked.

Neville, who had been mostly quiet in planning Granger's demise, stepped forward with a dark smile, " _And,_ let's make sure she does."

There were dark smiles all around.

Quietly as possible, a group was selected to seal the deal. Ron, as he was the one Hermione had threatened; Harry, who had presented the plan; Draco, from an Ancient and Noble Dark House; Celeste, Slytherin's Queen; Percy Weasley, as Ron's eldest brother; and lastly, Cassius Warrington and Marcus Flint, for firepower. If they ran into anyone, the story went that Ron, Draco, and Harry had become confused and gone to the Slytherin dormitory (as told by Dumbledore!) and the elder years had gone to retrieve them. This decided, they crept silently through the deserted corridors, the three first years in the middle for credibility.

As they crept closer to the bathroom, Cassius held up his hand, stopping the others. "Can you smell something?"

Harry sniffed and a familiar, foul stench reached his nostrils. Then he heard it — a low grunting, and the shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet. Peering into the darkness, he narrowed his eyes until he spotted it. Tapping Cassius' shoulder, Harry pointed — at the end of a passage to the left, something huge was moving toward them. They shrank into the shadows and watched as it emerged into a patch of moonlight. It was just as awful as before. Still, Harry couldn't help but love the terrible creature as it stumbled dumbly into the girls' room. They were _just_ in time.

Harry smiled. "Granger's in that bathroom."

Ron eyed the door, "And the key's in the lock," he muttered. "We should lock it in."

"Good idea," Percy murmured. He moved forward to do just that but was blocked by Celeste.

Celeste smirked, "I know you were in Gryffindor for three years but Slytherins do things a little differently."

They watched as she pointed her wand at the door. With a silent locking spell, the heavy door slipped shut. "I've keyed it so that it will unlock itself if a teacher gets within two feet of it," she finished smugly.

Celeste turned around and motioned for them to go. Draco held up a hand, "Should probably cover the spell residue," he murmured. "If she lives and says the doors were locked, you don't want to leave the staff anything to trace." Celeste blinked. She hadn't counted on Granger living but she supposed it couldn't hurt. She should have expected such caution from Lucius Malfoy's son. With a quick spell, she erased her magical signature.

Flushed with their victory, the seven began to make their way back. However, as they reached the corner they heard something that made them all grin widely — a high, petrified scream — from the chamber they had just locked up. _Goodbye_ , Hermione Granger.

Hiding their giddiness, the group made it back to the library in record time. Their mission had taken all of fifteen minutes and there was still plenty of chaos for them to slip in unnoticed amongst. Making a beeline for the alcove claimed by the Elite, they managed to slip past the silencing wards before the first adrenaline-spiked giggles broke free.

The faces of the remaining Slytherin Elite greeted them.

"So?" Neville asked eagerly. His eyes glittered wickedly in the dim light.

Percy Weasley gave a blood-chilling smile, "Miss Granger's being handled as we speak."

Returning the grin, Neville withheld a cheer in the stead of pulling a pair of quick, congratulatory hugs from his husbands. Job done, the Elite settled down to wait for the all clear, just like all the other innocent students in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

* * *

 **Um, hello dears! So sorry for this being up so late - I was on vacation with no reliable wifi to speak of. Anyway, I hope you liked this! I changed Hermione's reason for being in the bathroom, mostly to make her a better villain. Other than that, I don't have any other notes? As always, feel free to ask any questions you have! One of the highlights of my day is chatting with you guys! I swear, I have the best reviews. Thanks so much guys, including those of you I can't reply personally to!**

 **Also, if anyone feels like betaing this, feel free to shout. Mine haven't replied back to me in weeks, now :(**

 ***Whispers* Also, Bill/Fenrir should be in the next chapter. I think. Hope. Will try to manage. Only reason it won't be is if I go over my word limit for chapters (around 5000). Also, this chapter has been edited recently (8/20/2017), FYI.**

 **I can't wait to hear from you! Ttyl!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	11. The Webs We Weave

The next morning found the Great Hall adorned in black. Replacing the usual House banners were somber hangings displaying the Hogwarts crest and the ceiling was bare of magic. The entire room was lit only by grey morning light and sparse black candles. At the head table, the staff had assembled in a similarly grim state, their faces aged and weary. This having followed what was widely regarded as the most exciting Halloween in years, students immediately began to whisper about what had happened. Most had written the Troll off as a bit of good fun – now, no one was quite so sure.

The Slytherin Elite appeared no different from any other student. They walked in as they would have any other day, their behavior shifting appropriately as they took in the changed décor. Sensing the atmosphere – as was expected of any good Snake – they settled their courts and set an example for their House. Between pacifying worried members and tactfully quelling the rumor mill, they earned an approving nod from many watching professors. They broke composure only to exchange a few harried looks; as if they didn't all know perfectly well what had happened.

Celeste Yaxley bit back a grin. Never a prouder Queen of Slytherin had there been.

As the last of students arrived at their respective tables, Albus Dumbledore rose. Silence fell without any prompting, every eye turned to his unusually dark figure. With a great, tired voice, he proclaimed:

"It is at my utter displeasure that I must inform you of an unimaginable tragedy. First-year Gryffindor Hermione Jean Granger was killed last night in an altercation with the Troll spotted in our dungeons." Dumbledore paused here, allowing for the wave of gasps and whispers that followed such news. After a moment, he cleared his throat and carried on.

"Like many of you, Miss Granger was a muggleborn just starting out in this world. Already, she had a bright future planned for herself. It is a great misfortune that her life was taken from her so cruelly. Clever, driven, and courageous, she was not just a credit to her House, but to our entire society." He swept his blue eyes across the Hall, as though to provide comfort. The only ones who seemed to need it were the Puffs (who were the sort to become swept up by that kind of speech) and a few guilty-feeling Gryffindors. However, Dumbledore appeared satisfied with the emotional turn out.

Closing his eyes as though it pained him to do so, the old man brought the impromptu ceremony to a close. "Let us have a moment of silence for Hermione Jean Granger," he decreed. He and the rest of the teachers swiftly bowed their heads. After a moment or two passed, Dumbledore unbowed and declared: "Today, in order to pay our respects and remember our fallen peer, classes will be canceled. After this meal, please return to your common rooms." He sent a last searching glance across the room. "May we all remember the girl that was Hermione Granger," he finished gravely.

The food appeared a moment later and with that the hall descended into its true purpose: the rumor-trading hub of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Holding back their pleased smiles, the Slytherin Elite ate quietly. They had just gotten away with murder right under the great Dumbledore's nose! Celeste Yaxley looked particularly pleased with herself, like the cat with the canary. The other Dark Slytherins who had participated personally shared her expression. Pleased with how this would increase their standing in the Dark, Harry thought. Personally, he was rather exhausted by the whole event.

Sighing, Harry leaned into Ron, careful to keep appearances platonic. With the adrenalin of the night gone, a deep lethargy had settled in Harry's bones. Already, one of their aggressors was dead. However, an entire war still sat on the horizon. His hatred, fear, and rage had carried him this far, but Harry couldn't help but regard the future warily. His life so rarely flowed this easily, after all…

Where Harry was broody and Ron was pensive in the face of Dumbledore's pronouncement, Neville felt practically _giddy_. Hermione Granger was gone and Neville was unabashedly pleased with her absence. Frankly, as far as Neville was interested, his most pressing concern now was how to keep Ron from mangling his poor Trevor. Everything else could be dealt with in time.

Slinging a friendly arm around Ron's shoulder, Neville tucked a smile behind a sip of tea. He withheld a snort as his eyes settled on Harry. Sure, Ron might be the planner of the three of them, but Neville could already see Harry mulling over the future. Brushing the fingers of his outstretched arm gently against Harry's shoulder, Neville sent him a small smile. Hesitantly, as though he weren't sure the expression fit, Harry returned it.

Rolling his eyes, Neville pulled his arm back with dramatic flair. A startled laugh escaped from both his yet-husbands and Neville flashed a grin. Such a pair of worries, his loves. Neville had spent the majority of his old life worrying – he was determined not to make the same mistake again.

Bolstered by the subtle support of his loves, Ron couldn't help but toy with the thought of writing his _mother_ a note. Perhaps, 'Love potions, really?' in a nice, poison green. Yet, there was no reason to poke the woman who had been planning the deaths of his family pre-conception. He didn't want to drive her to showing her temper early.

No, Ron would avoid his mother for now. With any luck, this was her only plan and regrouping would take her time. In the now, Ron thought with a soft look to Neville and Harry, he would take his own time and give it to people more worth his while.

* * *

Following breakfast, the Bloody Baron informed the Slytherin Elite that Professor Snape wished to speak to them in the sitting room. Located off the Head of House's private suite, the sitting room was traditionally used for discussing matters deemed too delicate for the Head's office. Countless family feuds, scandals, and, oddly, marriage contracts had been hashed out and hidden within the walls of the innocuously named 'sitting room'. As such, it was also one of the few rooms in the dungeons designed to radiate comfort and calmness. Large, squishy couches in bright evergreen formed a squat _U_ around a neatly woven carpet, and, being one of the rare Slytherin rooms above ground, huge windows dominated the far wall. There were even flowers on the coffee table.

The room felt a little like leaving a tunnel to enter daylight, Theodore Nott mused. However, while his classmates had merely blinked and moved on, Theo had found himself fighting off a wave of dizziness. As a Charms Master from a family known for their warding, the buzz of the privacy spells layered over the room was suffocating. That his eleven-year-old body had not yet built up a resistance to the sensory-overload hadn't helped, either. Professor Snape's magic (black and thick and choking, like smoke off a burning corpse) screamed the loudest, telling Theo that the newest, most copious wards had been woven solely by Severus. Theo felt sure that no one, not even the Headmaster, would be able to view past such a miasma.

Personally, Theo expected that no headmaster had ever been able to see into this room. When he closed his eyes, he could sense the remnants of personal wards of thousands of witches and wizards. If he looked harder, he could even pick out the whisper of his grandfather and father's magic. Unsurprising, really. Theo's grandfather had been one of the original Walpurgis Knights and had been Lord Voldemort's best warder to his death. After the funeral, Theo's father had taken his place. That they had both warded this room for two different generations of Death Eaters was likely. Manipulating Slughorn into letting _such talented students_ use the room as _a_ _place to study_ wouldn't have been hard, after all.

Pulling himself from his reflections, Theo cast a lazy glance around the room. Perhaps twenty Elite shared the couches while the rest stood, purposely casual. Most were mingling, using the genteel atmosphere to work on their social positions. From where he sat, Theo could see Draco holding court with Celeste Yaxley and her probable heir, sixth year Prince Alexei Dolohov. Third year Prince Terence Higgs hovered nearby.

Theo didn't think Higgs would last much longer in his position. The Weasley twins had made a splash in third year Slytherin, their wit and economic interest a breath of fresh air in the political smog. They were fast increasing their popularity and Higgs barely seemed to notice, too caught up in their handsome faces. Similarly, Percy Weasley was taking shots at the fifth year Prince, Eldritch Travers. Unlike the twins, Percy used political tensions to his advantage. He seamlessly backed Travers into conversation that highlighted his worst opinions, pinning down his comments and slickly cutting away any justifying context. By December, Theo expected to see quite the shift in the hierarchy.

Unexpectedly, Theo felt a pang of loss. He could only imagine how Luna would see the machinations of Slytherin House. Probably laugh at the madness, he thought. Gods, but he missed her. His heart ached without her hand on his arm. Even at their most nightmarish, sometimes his memories of their life together were all that got him through the day.

Luna had come to him softly, wickedly. He had been watching, pained, as Draco tried to teach a hundred-odd stanchly Light teenagers offensive magic. Theo had only even been there for Draco's sake, really. He had dragged Theo to the Dumbledore's Army meeting in an effort to pull more of Slytherin House out of the Dark Lord's influence. Theo, who hadn't been particularly enamored with the Dark Lord since Voldemort's insane rages had made such a mess of his father, had been the perfect place to start.

That the Malfoys had been Light spies had never surprised Theo very much. For all their pretenses, they were a very fluid family. Magically speaking, Malfoys were Dark but politically, whoever was in power could expect to find a Malfoy at their shoulder. As such, Theo had taken his best friend's 'betrayal' in stride. Unfortunately, that meant acquiescing when Draco _invited_ him to rebel meetings in the middle of the bloody night.

Theo had been in the process of devising an escape strategy when Luna had joined him on the bench he had staked out. _"'It seems a nargle's met you, too,'"_ she'd murmured dreamily, barely looking at him. Then she'd turned, grinning, _"'Would you mind terribly if I shooed him away?'"_

 _I don't think I'd mind you doing anything_ , Theo had thought, stunned. Beyond her beauty, which was enchanting, her boldness had surprised Theo. A member of the controversial Draco Malfoy's court and grandson of the infamous Justinian Nott, not many people had the guts to approach him. That he could feel the Light magic pouring from her skin had made her even more of an anomaly.

Trying not to show his questions, Theo had given the strange girl a nod. At the very least, he had thought that could learn her name. Maybe even find out what in Morgana's name a nargle was. Yet, with a last wicked grin, the girl had sprung gracefully to her feet. Unnoticed by the masses, she had moved to stand just behind Draco. A flick of a wand later and a color-change jinx went hurdling over Draco's shoulder to splatter obnoxiously green across the famous Harry Potter's back.

Too stunned to speak, Theo could only watch as Draco and Potter devolved into an angry shouting match for the ages. The match almost ended with Draco spattered in Potter's own red color-changer; however, Draco was a fast little shit. Thus, the jinx hit Lavender Brown instead. Never such a shriek had Theo ever heard. From that point on, the only training managed was how to dodge and shoot simultaneously. Chaos officially reigned supreme, with the beautiful blond giggling joyfully in the middle of the mess.

Theo could honestly say that he had never felt more alive than he had in that one hour, in that one room, all because of that one girl.

"' _I told you,'"_ she had confessed to him later, as he helped her spell away the jinxes covering her. He had sought her out purposely, unable to resist asking her why she had done it. _"'A nargle was in your hair. I could only assume it had stolen your smile, like he has so many others. And everyone knows fun is the only way to bring a smile back.'"_ She had looked at him, then, her expression softer than he had ever seen before. _"'You have a very beautiful smile, you know. I've always thought so, but now I know for sure. Has anyone ever told you that before?'"_

She had grinned again, then flounced away down the hall. Theo had found himself alone with a kissed cheek and a stunned expression, mind rushing to drastically change his plans. Now, instead of finding a way to tell Draco to politely fuck off about Dumbledore's Army, he would need a way to hide his participation from his father. It appeared he would be covertly changing sides – even if the Light side's spellwork was shit.

Theo wouldn't find out her name until the third DA meeting and by that point her surname hadn't been enough to spook him. After all, Theo was now considered a blood-traitor, too, wasn't he? He had happily kissed away her insecurity, having never once regretted his decision. Not when the Inquisitorial Squad began to shadow his every move, not when his father kicked him out, not when Marked Slytherins began making unsubtle threats to his person. Even when he had found himself locked up in Riddle Manor's hastily constructed dungeon, he had not regretted switching sides. How could he, when for each of those awful instances, Luna Lovegood was there to kiss his cheek and hold his hand and make them matching necklaces of woven string bits? They had married days after the Final Battle, then left for Africa. Luna was determined to find the Southern Crumple-Horned Snorkack, not to be mistaken with its Swedish cousin, and Theo was happy to join her.

When the Ministry decreed that all British wizards and witches abroad must return or lose their citizenship, Theo could smell the potion brewing. His instincts told him to take Luna to the nearest nation with no extradition treaty and say fuck it to Britain but sentimentality had held him back. Luna's father had still been in England, along with most of their friends. Money he didn't much care about, but Theo had given up running away in fifth year. Still, he had never quite imagined just how bad the world they were returning to would be.

The moment they had set foot in Britain, Theo was condemned a non-combatant Dark wizard. In the new order, that meant his assets were seized and turned over to the Ministry, apparently to pay for war damages. By that point, the Malfoys were dead along with most other Dark magicals. Any survivors, like Draco and Blaise, were on the run. Harry Potter was decreed a Dark Lord and his followers were considered Dark rebels. Luna and Theo, who had appeared Light on the most part, had lived in Lovegood House with Luna's father under what had amounted to house arrest.

Still, they had done their part. They had used the Quibbler printing presses to give Rita Skeeter a platform and did what they could to help refugees escape into Ireland or the States. They had forged papers and prepared care packages and smuggled notes. Luna had developed a code incomprehensible to anyone without the key and Theo had warded so many safe houses he had begun to develop chronic magical exhaustion. Going on the run wasn't an option for them – Xenophilius was in no shape for it, and they could honestly do more fighting in plain sight.

Still, Theo could see the end coming. Life was only becoming harder as it went on and even Luna's glow was dimmed by the constant struggle. Eventually, they had faltered – and the Ministry had crucified them for it.

Theodore Nott had died on April 17th, 2001, holding Luna Nott's hand, hanging from the neck in the center of Diagon Alley. He could still remember the chilly fear, waiting for the floor to drop out. The rough rope against his throat. How he had bounced and wriggled like a fish on a line as he died, gripping Luna's hand so terribly tight, cringing as she gasped and choked…

A sharp clearing of a throat broke Theo of his memories. Snapping his head up, he grimaced slightly. How had his missed Snape's entrance? The man wasn't exactly subtle. Standing at the front of the room, he held himself as though taking cue from the reaper. His black eyes narrowed, observing his students as a cobra might a nest of baby mice.

"In respect for both my time and yours, I shall be blunt with you," Snape murmured, no need to raise his voice. "No one knows which of you were directly involved with the Troll Incident, nor do any but I suspect a student of any House had a hand in it. I am also alone in the knowledge that those assembled here did know of what was going to take place. Does anyone have anything to add? Perhaps a motive?"

The Slytherin Elite all stared at their professor, their faces impassive. Even the stupidest and weakest of the Elite could manage that much.

Snape arched an eyebrow. Whether he was pleased or irritated was anyone's guess. "I see. I do assure you, however, that I will find out eventually. For now, I would like to say I was very impressed with the spellwork I saw last night –"

"I was under the impression that there was no residue found," Celeste spoke up, her face a mask of polite interest. "If there was, surly the aurors would be here to track it?"

Snape smirked; and this time, yes, there was definitely an air of approval to his words. "Quite astute, Miss Yaxley. To the standard Light tracer spell, there wasn't any. However, a Darker individual might dig deeper. Perhaps by using the runes ansuz or kenaz in application with a bit of the victim's blood to find who, if anyone, used magic during her last moments. From there, it is rather simple to trace those peoples' magical signatures to the door." The room sat silently, watching as Celeste's jaw fell open softly. Snape's smirk gentled a touch.

"Yet, I would not worry over much about that. Quite cleverly, the door was open when we teachers stumbled across the unfortunate Miss Granger. With no blunt sign of foul play, none of my colleges saw anything beyond a horrible accident. I also took it upon myself to ensure that no lingering traces of magic could be found and misinterpreted by someone looking for a scapegoat," Snape added delicately. If there was only one kind thing to say about Severus Snape, it was that he looked after those charged to him.

When Celeste nodded slightly to show that she understood, Snape carried on. "As you well know, I can give no points in the case of such a tragedy, even though I find your behavior remarkable and commendable. I do trust, however, that you are all well pleased." There were nods, though no one was so blunt as to smile.

Snape nodded once, sharply. "Good. Then you are dismissed."

There was a hushed scramble as everyone stood and sorted themselves. A general thrum of excitement bounced among the Elite; for most, this was the first serious plot they had ever been involved in – the success left them giggly. Lee Jordan and the Weasley twins could be seen speaking in low tones, their grins mischievous. Obviously, a delivery of celebratory contraband was in the works.

Tilting his head so that his smile was hidden behind a curtain of hair, Severus Snape thought back fondly to a different wicked smile he hadn't seen in far too long.

* * *

Bill Weasley was fucking done with Scotland. The food, the weather, the people; all of it could sink back into the freezing grey water. Might make an improvement of the place, really. At least there wouldn't be any more miserable forest pockets or backwater hamlets to search. No cities to scour, either. In such a perfect world, Bill would have been able to catch the first portkey back to hot, sunny Egypt without feeling the least bit guilty.

However, Bill's world was far from perfect. Helping his father suffer through Amortentia withdrawal for that first month had nearly killed him, let alone managing his own nightmares. Lucius and Narcissa had been invaluable and Charlie had swooped in from Romania by October, but even so Bill had been on his last legs. Hence being kicked out to go find his wayward mate – as if that were any easier.

Sighing, Bill slumped on an invitingly located stump. He felt as though he had looked everywhere, searched every inch of the country. Logically, he knew that he shouldn't have expected this to be simple. Fenrir hadn't grown to be the most feared alpha in Europe by being easily hunted, after all. However, living three years of his life within the pack should have given Bill an edge, dammit!

Unlike what most thought, Fenrir's pack didn't restrict themselves to one forest or forests at all. Rather, they cycled through various territories, from woodlands and rural towns to Glasgow. In addition, the entire pack was extremely muggle-savvy. Technology was utilized in ways Bill hadn't thought possible, almost entirely replacing magic. Most werewolves also had muggle jobs, using the traits they had learned to bring forward from their wolf forms to their advantage. Rarely did the entire pack meet together at one time and instead lived in smaller chapters headed by lieutenants loyal to Fenrir. A veritable candy land of werewolf info, and veritably useless. A month into his search, Bill figured he was running at least a week behind the pack. With how randomly the chapters moved, Bill might as well be lifetimes away.

Half of him wanted to set up a trap and wait, as he would hunting a target for Gringotts; however, Bill wasn't stupid. He couldn't be seen as a threat – not until Fenrir had claimed him, at least. Bill had experience with what happened to threats. He had no wish to see more. Bill flinched to call it _rape_ but there was no other word for their first mating. In a war rage and unable to control the wolf in his blood, Fenrir had given him no choice. Bill's screams had bled into the racket of the battle raging around them. He had passed out, mercifully, but not quickly enough. Learning to forgive Fenrir, to trust him, to love him, had been a long, bitter affair after that. Fenrir's unexpected patience had gone a long way, along with Fenrir's own horror at his actions.

Being a wizard, Bill hadn't understood how claiming their mate could supersede a werewolf's mind. Usually they could hold back, but as he and Fenrir had met in the middle of a horrific battle, Fenrir hadn't had enough of a grip on his humanity. The wolf had taken him over, leaving Bill confused and terrified. For the longest time, Fenrir would only approach if Bill invited him expressly. Never would Bill see him resemble anything like the werewolf he had fought. Only as he had died, watching Fenrir fight against their assailants, did Bill see even a hint of the monster he had first met.

Fingernails biting into his palms, Bill pulled himself to his feet. That wouldn't happen again, none of it. Not if Bill had a damned thing to say about it. Instead, Bill would run across Fenrir unassumingly, walking through his territory like the idiot wizard Bill really wasn't. That Fenrir hadn't returned complicated things, but Bill worked for goblins. _Complicated_ was his specialty.

So, here he was, walking through another damned forest, trying to look as hapless as an international top-ten cruse-breaker could. He hummed carelessly, hands swinging aimlessly. He cracked sticks underfoot and let his body brush against leaves and trees, leaving behind his scent. Bill had even let his hair out of his standard pony tail and replaced his usual dragonhide with flimsy jeans that hugged his ass and a flannel button-up. From a werewolf perspective, Bill would have to be actively fucking himself to look anymore available. Now, if he could just find the _right_ werewolf –

"Well, well, well – what do we have here?"

Bingo. _Finally_.

Fighting down a triumphant fist pump, Bill whipped around dramatically. A chill ran down his back; not quite fear, but close. Even from across the glade he had stumbled into, Fenrir looked intimidating. His eyes glittered icy lupine blue and the cut of the grin he wore was predatory. Yet, Fenrir's face was purely human – high cheek bones, strong nose, sharp, aristocratic jawline. His hair, long, thick, and dark, was tied back neatly and his clothes were intact. The pack hadn't been in the forest long enough to slip into their half-transformed states, then. That would bode well for Bill.

Quick to play his part, Bill whipped his wand from his pocket. As he well knew, though, Fenrir was faster. The alpha charged, clearing the glade and knocking Bill over in a blink. Purposely, Bill let his wand go flying – easier to summon it back wandlessly than risk Fenrir breaking it in some trite show of dominance. Still, you had to sell this sort of thing. Bill let out a piteous moan, looking up at Fenrir from under his lashes. Fenrir's nostrils flared, his eyes dilating – something like glee lit them from the inside as comprehension dawned.

For the nth time, Bill wished he had been able to see those reactions the first time around.

"Mine," Fenrir growled, "My pretty little present, right here for me. _Mine_. My _mate_." Bill sputtered lamely, trying for disbelieving and confused. Terrified was too hard – especially with Fenrir pinning him down, the delicious bulge in his trousers pushing against Bill's stomach.

"I am Fenrir Greyback," Fenrir murmured, nearly nose to nose with Bill, eyes intent. He had a knee between Bill's legs, big hands firm around Bill's wrists. There was magic thrumming in his voice, as old and ancient as lycanthropy itself. "I claim you for my own, for always, unto eternity. My mate." Fenrir said and caught Bill's mouth in a hard, possessive kiss.

Completely distracted from his character, Bill let the kiss wash over him. It had been two months; two months of worry for his father, his brothers, his friends, his pack, _Fenrir_. His every instinct cried for him to submit, to let Fenrir take some of the burden from his shoulders. But no, not yet.

Once they'd fully, er, _mated_ , there would be a moment where the bond settled. Typically, a bonded pair only shared emotions, impressions, and sometimes dreams. However, in that moment where the bond took hold, entire memories slipped between mates. Bill was counting on using that moment to show Fenrir the life they had already lived once through. Be a hell of a lot easier than trying to convince Fenrir of his sincerity at any other moment. His mate was such a suspicious bastard, Bill thought affectionately.

Fingers scrabbling at Fenrir's duster – whether to pull him closer or push him back was anyone's interpretation – Bill broke the kiss. "What the hell!?" He breathed, deliberately thrusting his hips upward. Fenrir hissed.

Pulling Bill's arms above his head, Fenrir shifted to hold both Bill's wrists with one hand. The other came down slowly, softly tracing the line of Bill's jaw to the edge of his lower lip. A wicked smile spread across Fenrir's face. Without warning, the hand that had been so gently tracing Bill's features fisted in his hair, pulling sharply. Bill gasped, back arching as electricity zipped along his spine.

Fenrir laughed lowly, sensuously. "Sensitive," he murmured, hot breath ghosting against Bill's throat. He pressed kisses from Bill's chin to his breast bone, pausing to suck a red mark on Bill's Adam's apple. "I always hoped."

Satisfied with the dazed expression floating across Bill's features, Fenrir broke his hold just long enough to shuck off his long jacket. His shirt came off similarly, allowing Bill to ogle the exquisite architecture that was Fenrir's chest. Not very subtly, apparently, as Fenrir laughed upon catching Bill's eye. Bill flushed, turning his head demurely, and pretended not to smirk when he heard the growl rumble from Fenrir's chest.

Abruptly, hands fell to Bill's jeans, pawing at the buttons there. His patience spent, Bill swallowed his tongue as Fenrir lengthened his claws and shredded the denim, tossing the remains far from them. Bill's top followed, baring him to Fenrir's attentive eye.

"Hope you weren't too attached to those," Fenrir breathed, his words ghosting over Bill's exposed skin. Bill sucked air in hiccups, overpowered by the insane heat of Fenrir's body competing with the November chill.

"Not as much as I thought I was," Bill gasped. He sunk his blunt nails into Fenrir's shoulders. His mate snarled, deep and primal, and roughly parted Bill's legs. Briefly, Bill patted himself on the back for going commando today.

Shucking his own pants off, Fenrir pulled back. Under his possessive glare, Bill couldn't help but bare his throat. He was so used to Fenrir watching him, studying him, as though he were something that needed watching; _protecting_. Gods, but he had missed that.

"You want this," Fenrir murmured. Not a question nor a request, but merely a fact pending confirmation. Likely, Fenrir could smell and sense just how much Bill wanted this. Still, this was the consideration, the _humanity_ , which had been missing the first time around. Bill melted, rolling his hips.

"Please," Bill replied, breathless. He tossed his head back away, flashing his throat anew.

Fenrir obviously appreciated his gesture, as he branded a string of hot kisses along the exposed skin before claiming Bill's mouth. Fenrir let go of Bill's wrists to cradle his face in both hands. Desperate, Bill drew him closer, wrapping his freed arms around Fenrir's neck. He tossed a leg over Fenrir's back, pulling their hips together. Fenrir would probably have a bruise from where Bill's hiker pressed into his ass tomorrow, Bill mused. The heady rush of contention he felt at the thought was addictive. As though sensing his thoughts, Fenrir deepened the kiss before pulling back, nipping at Bill's bottom lip. Blood bloomed from Bill's skin and Fenrir suckled at the tiny wound, looking pleased as he pulled away.

"Still don't know your name," Fenrir prompted, running possessive hands over Bill's skin. Liquid heat flooded Bill's lower belly.

"Never asked," Bill panted, helpless to hold back as Fenrir bit at the curve of his hip, furthering a trail of bruises leading to his cock.

Fenrir growled and let his claws trail over Bill's ribs, just hard enough to draw blood. Bill hissed, Fenrir's big, strong hands keeping his hips from thrusting in retaliation. "I am now, _mate_."

"How gentlemanly," Bill whispered against Fenrir's lip. He never had been able to resist testing his werewolf's limits.

"Tease," Fenrir snapped and suddenly there was a finger in him, twisting mercilessly. How he had missed the lubing charm Bill had now idea, nor did he much consider it as he howled against Fenrir's bare shoulder.

"Bill," he wheezed, "My name's Bill. Sweet Merlin, _Fenrir_."

" _Bill_ ," Fenrir replied teasingly, tasting the name on his lips. Experimentally he slid in another finger, loving how his snarky mate screamed for him. Bill writhed in pleasure, mind gone, fallen leaves catching in his vale of fiery hair. A wild thing Fenrir itched to bring to heel, if only in this.

Dipping down again, Fenrir traced the contours of Bill's chest, taking time to mark up each pert nipple. Bill ground down impatiently, wanting more, begging in a bubbling stream of words and actions. Fenrir's inner wolf nipped at his tether, eager to jump to the forefront and take and take and take, but Fenrir held back. He could smell the virginity on his mate's skin even as Bill took to sex with a hedonistic joy. Of all the sins Fenrir had committed in the name of his people, he would not add harming his mate to that list, no matter how hard the animal in his chest struggled. Not until he was sure it was safe. Instead, Fenrir sucked Bill's throat a bright red and pushed in a third finger, grinning smugly as Bill's enthusiastic cry shook the woods.

"Please, please, please, please," Bill choked, nails scrawling lines into Fenrir's back, fingers knotting in his hair. Both of his legs were wound around Fenrir's waist, dragging them both into the ground, into each other.

Fenrir couldn't take it anymore. Bill put a light on areas Fenrir couldn't tame; his own personal full moon. Fixing his mouth to his mate's, Fenrir lined himself against Bill's hole, moving his fingers at the last possible second before thrusting in. Bill's head snapped back, lungs airless and wanting, only able to produce a high, keening whine. Fenrir lost himself in the tightness gripping his cock, his back arching, hands bruising in their grip on Bill's slender hips.

"Gods, you're so good, so beautiful, never going to stop wanting you," Fenrir hissed. "Going look like such an idiot, staring at you so hard I'll walk into walls." Bill laughed breathlessly, head thrown back and gorgeous to any eye that dare look at him.

Though none would, Fenrir swore. Not so long as he was there to slit them from gullet to gut if they did. After a few testing thrusts Fenrir finally allowed his animalistic nature to take over, pistoling his hips in and out. Bill moaned obscenely, delirious from the pleasure. His fingers scrabble deliciously across Fenrir's back, Fenrir paying him back with thrusts that took the breath out of both of them. By the time they came, heaving, Fenrir couldn't think straight. He was running completely on instinct.

With a snarl Fenrir bit into his mate's neck, leaving his mark and triggering the bond. He had heard of werewolves too lost in their animal to savor this, and he was grateful to not be one of them. Their stories always ended tragically. Pushing those thoughts away, Fenrir watched eagerly as Bill's childhood memories rolled by, picking up odd bits of knowledge (eldest child of seven, mother was a hag, hated walnuts, once stuck a jellybean up his nose on a dare). He was anxious over what Bill would make of his own memories, but Fenrir had enough faith in the Moon that he wouldn't be mated to someone who would hate him for his actions.

The memories progressed quickly, floating through Bill's Hogwarts years (O's in Charms, Runes, Arithmancey, DADA, and CoMC, a prefect and a Head Boy; his mate was wickedly smart) and after (goblins, tombs, hot sun, one terrifying indecent with river-bound inferi, the rush of adrenalin, and _freedom_ ). Fenrir expected them to end there, but wait, no; the memories were _still going_. Bill couldn't be more than twenty, twenty-one, though. Confused, Fenrir let the settling bond take him further, through a string of events he had no reference for.

Bill, meeting a young black-haired boy _("The Boy Who Lived, are you?"_ ), attending a Quidditch World Cup in _England_? Fighting, the Dark Lord's morsmordre in the air, Bill slashed by a Death Eater's curse. Later, meeting a pretty blond girl (Veela, even in a memory Fenrir could smell it in her), panic, _Voldemort is back._ Boredom at a desk job, only doing it for the Order's sake, only break from the monotony the pretty blond Veela; still, Bill would trade her in a heartbeat to be back in Egypt. Father almost murdered, Voldemort on the rise, marrying the Veela because everyone expects it. Bill thinks they'll probably both die soon anyway. Death Eaters arrive early, the wedding never happens, just death as the fighting picks up. Battle of the Astronomy Tower, attack a werewolf to save a girl, no, wait, that's _Fenrir_ – horrible mating, oh gods, a nightmare.

Three years of life after, half with Fenrir and the pack, half in England; always longing for Egyptian sun. Can't go, though, even when the goblins offer. England is so Light it's blinding, people are dying, there's another war to fight, and they do, both of them, together, until –

Cornered on the edge of Knockturn Alley, a huddle of terrified children around their legs and in their arms. The old safe house was found, they have to move the kids somewhere else. Oh Gods, they won't make it. Even with the residents of Knockturn coming out to help, the Light are too many. Bill looks at him, blue eyes bright with fury, old scars from Fenrir's claws blunt on his face. His face is youthful but the broken edges are obvious. Both Fenrirs, the one present and the one memory, are sick with his pain. Memory Fenrir meets Bill's eyes, though, and nods. Together they usher the children into Dark arms, then turn back to the mouth of Knockturn Alley. They fight, blood soaking the burning cobbles. They do not survive but their distraction succeeds.

Then Bill's back. Fresh and twenty-one again, somehow in Egypt with two sets of memories. Fenrir catches sight of Bill's mad dash to England, the horrific month nursing his father through Amortentia madness, and then –

Searching for Fenrir. Finding him. Loving –

Fenrir settled in the present to the sensation of fingers running through his hair. He must have pulled out, because he lay quietly, resting comfortably against Bill's shoulder. Bill's fingers were the fingers running through his hair and Fenrir's long jacket had been pulled up over them to protect against the chill. Distantly, he could sense warming and privacy spells cast from the wand Bill was twirling in his free hand. The wand Fenrir was sure had been flung half-way cross the glade a moment ago.

Fenrir swallowed, a little unsure of what to do. Maybe even (dare he think it?) _scared_ of what would happen next. The world he had seen in Bill's memories – and they had to be _Bill's memories_ , there was no way to fake that – was horrifying. The circumstance of their _first_ _meeting_ were horrifying. With memories like that, how could Bill have even bothered to search him out? _How?_

"Hush," Bill murmured, pulling Fenrir's attention to him. There was a soft look on his face, an expression Fenrir felt was distantly familiar. "I can hear you thinking from here, Fen."

"Fen?" Fenrir asked. He thought he had heard it before, probably in one of Bill's memories.

Bill hummed, "You always got so growly when I called you that in public; or worse, in front of the pack." Bill smirked, "Turned you on when we were in bed, though."

"How?" Fenrir murmured, looking into Bill's eyes. Without the low-grade Lycanthropy, Bill's eyes were hazel.

"We don't really know," Bill replied, answering only half of Fenrir's question. He kept up running his fingers through Fenrir's hair, which had come loose from its tie. "Magic, I suppose. There's going to be a meeting of us soon."

"I will be with you," Fenrir said, voice final. No matter what bullshit was going on, he would not leave his mate to fight alone. _Not unless he asked me to_ , Fenrir thought, but didn't dare say.

Bill smiled softly and at once the tension between them rushed away. "I always hoped you would be," Bill replied. They lay like that, content and together, until the pack's warning howls chased them back into their clothes; Bill wrapped in Fenrir's jacket.

* * *

 **Well, much later than I promised it, here is the Bill/Fenrir stuff. I hope it's good, but this is my first sex scene so I can only guess? Also, Luna/Theo just kinda snuck in there; hopefully it's as cute as I thought it was. Also, a ton more culture porn because I am a fucking addict. The stuff about runes came from here: /rune-meanings/rune-meaning-analysis-kenaz by the way. Great resource, that is.**

 **I pulled two all-nighters to get this done, so I'm very tired. Nighty-night, sweet hearts, feel free to send me your questions and comments any time, I'm dying to know what you think! Also, this has been newly edited as of 8/20/2017.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	12. Scared?

As the morbid excitement around Hermione Granger's demise began to settle, so too did the true cold grip of November. The mountains around the school became icy gray and temperatures in the Slytherin Dorms dropped even further as the lake froze over. Professor Snape summoned the first years to the common room for a refresher on warming charms and the fireplaces roared at all hours. Before long, Hagrid could be spotted defrosting broomsticks on the Quidditch field, bundled up from head to toe. This, for many, was the first sign of the only _real_ season: Quidditch.

Daphne Greengrass rolled her eyes as one of the second years hurriedly babbled to Marcus Flint about the sighting. Marcus wasted no time congratulating the boy on his sharp eyes, going so far as to _hug_ him before running off, calling for Oliver. Apparently, it was officially crunch time to narrow down Slytherin's Quidditch strategy; as if that _hadn't_ been the only topic of discussion since Granger's corpse had cooled. Daphne already knew the statistics by heart and she didn't even _like_ Quidditch.

Surprising no one, Harry Potter would be replacing Terrence Higgs as Seeker. Higgs had thrown the same fit he had when Draco had replaced him the first time around but, just like the last time, Slytherin House couldn't be made to care. The Weasley Twins had made Beater, anyway, and that was much more interesting. Oliver Wood had taken Keeper, of course, with Marcus Flint as a Chaser with Adrien Pucey and Graham Montague. Graham had been encouraged to try out early on by Percy Weasley, who must have remembered how good he had been from their last life. Daphne had thought the whole exchange rather sweet; Graham had veritably preened, his hesitance overtaken by his adoration of Percy. Once he had received the uniform, he had swaggered around showing it off, completely aware of the blush on Percy's face – if not the quiet interest in Adrien Pucey's eyes.

Honestly, the betting pool was still a bit swollen from the whole episode. If Daphne hadn't known better, she would have thought the three of them were playing it up for a cut of the profits. Unfortunately, she had known at least Percy long enough to ascertain that the entire debacle was perfectly, tragically genuine.

A sharp whoop broke Daphne from her musings. Sighing, she turned her page in Magical Vanity, trying dearly to be absorbed in the designs. Obviously, Marcus had found Oliver. Now there definitely wouldn't be any peace until after Saturday's match and only then if someone died during the damn game. Perhaps she would get lucky, what with a traditional Gryffindor/Slytherin match kicking off the season.

Many of the returned who had once played Gryffindor had been brought low by the reminder of their inevitable betrayal. However, Daphne found little could truly kill a player's spirit for the game, even if the season was all but guaranteed for Slytherin. If anything, the odds only encouraged the Weasley Twins and Lee Jordan to start work on the celebratory after-party early.

Realizing she hadn't truly looked at her magazine in the last ten minutes, Daphne chucked the glossy collection of pages to the side. Nothing new, anyway – a drawback of jumping back in time, she guessed. Sighing, Daphne stared at the murky depths of Black Lake through the window she had seated herself beside for this exact situation. With a little effort, she schooled her expression into something distant and affected a pensive posture. From this position, she could survey the entire common room in the glass's reflection without looking the least bit suspicious. Just perfect for a little moment of people watching; Slytherin's answer for moaning and loudly declaring your boredom.

Daphne smiled bitterly. Not that anyone had an excuse to be bored, really. So much had shifted following the death of Hermione Granger that Wizarding Britain still hadn't quite adjusted. Even the _returned_ hadn't quite been prepared for what they had started. Of course, they shouldn't have expected to be; not with Lucius Malfoy's teeth sunk into the matter. They had been childish to forget that the Hogwarts returned weren't the only pieces on the board.

Oh well, Daphne mused, she suppose they did look the part. Besides, Lucius had trumped anything the Hogwarts returned could have managed.

Using Granger's death, Lucius had crucified the Board of Governors. He had nailed them for inaction, laziness, and blindness; going so far as to suggest that they were, perhaps, too comfortable in their chairs. In a stirring speech that was broadcast on the six o'clock Wizarding Radio, he had turned the muggleborn Granger into a sort of post-mortem poster-child for the dangers of forgetting their roots instead of spreading wizarding ideals to – not muggleborns, he had called them, but – "the Wizarding World's _lost children_."

Listening to the broadcast as the recording played in the Slytherin common room, Daphne had felt her mouth drop open. She had never heard such charisma before, such articulate guile. _Golden_ didn't come close. In one speech, Lucius Malfoy had reached into the ears of Wizarding Britain and wrapped his fingers around the heart of every parent and every guardian. Anyone who rebutted him sounded, at best, uncaring – at worst, filicidal.

Non-Slytherins often wondered how Malfoys always seemed to get their way. They wouldn't, anymore, after that speech.

Needless to say, many pieces of important government paperwork found their road blocks worn away. In the Wizengamont, the Education Amendment passed in hours, with the Dark Arts Amendment by the end of the day. The Magical Children's Act had taken longer, but after a solid week of debate it, too, had passed. All three were then batted about in the House of Lords, but that had taken no time at all. Not with Lucius Malfoy choosing _now_ to call in some of the choicest of the favors owed to him.

The end result was an unheard-of _three_ new laws introduced in significantly less than two weeks. All because of one dead muggleborn, a pureblood who was smart enough to pounce on the opportunity her corpse presented, and his son and his friends, who had killed the girl in the first place. It was the sort of scenario satires took their plots from and Daphne Greengrass, Slytherin House, and the Dark at large were high with the success of it.

Dumbledore had raised holy hell, of course, but he was so damaged now only the centric-Light had paid any attention to him. Though November was not even midway through, Hogwarts was awash with change. Muggle influence had fallen to an all-time low as teaching of the Old Ways became a mandate in History of Magic classes. Muggle Studies had been changed to World Cultures and curriculum for classes in healing, mind arts, magical languages, and warding were already in the works. Rita Skeeter had done a wonderful piece all about it, Minister Bones herself providing quotes about the Department of Education's plans.

In addition, all Hogwarts students were now also required to receive a full physical from Madam Pomfrey or an approved Ministry healer at the earliest possible time. All reports, be they of a muggleborn or a pureblood or somewhere in-between, were to be given to the freshly-founded Magical Children's Services. Any child who showed signs of abuse would be removed from their guardian and placed in MCS care until a proper solution could be found; be that emancipation or adoption by another, magical family. As children were so terribly precious in the Wizarding World, Daphne didn't foresee any problems with placing the wayward kids. Traditionalist purebloods, had, of course, taken the whole idea a step further and begun advocating that _all_ muggleborns should be blood-adopted, regardless of homelife, but they were still quite a small lot. Umbridge lead the brigade (having adopted a five-year-old whose parents had been "mysteriously" killed), and Daphne trusted her irritating personality would keep her club from gathering much steam.

The only act that hadn't received a push from Granger's fate was the Magical Creatures Amendment. Understandable, as it was sort of hard to make a case for allowing vampires and werewolves equal rights when a student had just been killed by a troll. The act wouldn't remain muzzled for long, though, Daphne knew. Lucius Malfoy was at a new peek in his power and he was motivated by blood. He would not stop until he had his prize, now, and that prize was the safety of those who were his family. There was no better motivation for a Slytherin, let alone a Malfoy, than that.

Frown pulling at her mouth, Daphne turned away from the window. Thoughts of such love woke something maudlin in her chest. Once upon a time, she'd had something like that. A _fairytale_ , the world had said, sown and grown in the summer after seventh year. Her family had retreated to the French countryside following the war, aware that their neutrality might not be enough for Light society. There, she had spent her days entertaining a continuous string of fortuitous purebloods her age, painfully cognizant of her parents' watchful eye. Purebloods were in the habit of marrying young, even after the War, and she knew her single status was an oddity. Even _Pansy Parkinson_ had beaten her to the alter!

Finally, Cormac McLaggen had swept into her receiving room.

Unlike like what the papers would later print, there was no love at first sight between them; no sudden passion or drama. His connections had impressed her more than his bravado or wit and he wasn't hard on the eyes. He had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts and marrying him, Daphne knew, would clear her family of all Light suspicion. They could go _home_ , back to England. The thought hadn't thrilled Daphne, personally, but she saw the spark the notion put in the eyes of her parents. However, it was still Astoria who finally decided Daphne. Her sweet sister, two years younger and a would-be fifth year. Daphne dreaded the thought of watching Astoria try and settle into Beauxbatons, an exile pleading sanctuary in all but name.

Besides, Cormac had been oddly sweet when he wasn't talking himself up for a crowd. Every day that June he had given her a new bouquet of flowers, asking shyly before he so much as held her hand. He was kind to her sister, approved of by her parents, and even supported her interest in fashion. Really, accepting his proposal had been simple. Everything about loving Cormac had been so _simple_. She and her family were moved back to England by July of '98, her engagement plastering every paper. "Slytherin princess finds her heart! Light knight to the rescue!" The headlines cried. Daphne had tried her best to find the humor, even as she had fumed. It was as if Wizarding Britain hadn't considered her human before Cormac's ring circled her finger. As if she were _something else_ until that moment.

As the days wore on, Daphne would merely shake her head at the papers. The rest of the world seemed to be falling madly, recklessly in love; why fight the depiction? The truth was so much less fun. Honestly, she and Cormac's lives barely affected each other. Cormac was a DAM, always away after a target, while Daphne spent her days Flooing to New York, where she was putting together her first fashion show. The time they did spend together was amicable, though, and as they drew closer to their wedding date, Daphne was confident she had made the best decision.

Then Cormac had died. The Ministry called him a tragic casualty in the war on Dark magic. After all, when Padma Patil bravely brought down the corrupt, evil law firm of Avery & Patil, a few innocent victims had been caught in the wreckage. Fifty-six of them, to be exact; including Daphne's easy, respectable Cormac. Her sweetest friend, if not her truest love.

She had buried him that Monday and when she read about Parvati Patil's murder the next morning, Daphne got to work. She spent hours hoarding ever piece of reliable newspaper she could find, pouring over the obituaries. Still clad in mourning robes, a raccoon's mask of makeup smeared around her bloodshot eyes, she had compiled a list of twenty-two _interesting_ deaths since the Final Battle. All were wizards and witches who had actively fought Light in the Battle of Hogwarts and had some level of influence over the wizarding public. She tracked her pattern two weeks longer, noting how the Ministry mouth pieces now only ever mentioned the names of warriors who had been killed by "Dark wizards and witches" _after_ the Battle. As though the war hadn't ended. As though those deaths ( _Cormac's death_ ) weren't unrelated rogues at work, as the papers said, but the Second Wizarding War continued.

The harder she looked, however, Daphne couldn't find an enemy. At the time, there were no new Dark Lords or Ladies, no radical extremist groups, not even a Death Eater enclave left active. She considered that the attacks really were rogues but that didn't make sense either. After the last war, there just weren't very many Dark magicals left; she herself would only admit her magical preference under pain of her sister's death. To kill that many Light war heroes, talented fighters all, though, you would need quite a few people working together.

It wasn't until mid-August that Daphne suspected the Ministry. With Lucius Malfoy joining her list on August 12th, 1998, there was no other option. Who else had the resources to assassinate such a powerful man _on the Ministry's own steps?_ When the anti-werewolf laws went into effect a little over a week later, her theory was sealed.

The Ministry was actively slaying war heroes, then using their blood to whip up the masses against political enemies. Racist, militaristic laws passed easily while people were distracted, legalizing the death of anyone who didn't agree. It was genocide on a scale not even Voldemort had considered. Clever, she had thought, staring dismally into the middle-distance while comprehension dawned. So very _clever_ that the Ministry must have paid a Slytherin _and_ a Ravenclaw to think it up. Certainly, no one would ever believe Daphne Greengrass if she ever said a word about it. Not the mad, sorrowed fiancé; not even a widow, never even a wife. Mad with grief, they would say she was. Can't believe a word from her delicate, cracked lips.

At least, not until the dead of a late September night. She could still remember the chill in her blood as Harry Potter's floating head hovered over her doorstep, body swathed in his invisibility cloak. The dull look in his eyes as he asked her for answers. Apparently, Luna and Theodore Nott had sent him her way. Daphne never had asked how they'd known she was the one to work it out or that she'd continued to gather intel _just in case_.

That night, Daphne had made the most important choice of her life. Against her better, safer, Slytherin judgement, she'd opened up her door and welcomed Harry Potter in. Without permeable Ronald Weasley and Neville Longbottom had both popped out from under disillusionments, offering her nods as they stumbled in behind Harry. All three were obviously exhausted, covered in minor cuts, bruises, and burns from near-hit spellfire. She had tended to them nervously as she rattled off her theories, her tales, her data and details, half-expecting them to laugh in her face. However, as she petered to a close and let silence descend, three grim expressions were all that met her.

That night, a resistance was born in her family's living room. A resistance that would kill Daphne and her sister not two years later, and her parents that night, when aurors tracking Harry and his husbands descended on Greengrass Manor. In the morning, the papers would declare Harry Potter a Dark Lord. For years, Light textbooks would teach of his first crime, the slaughter of the respectable Greengrass Family.

She knew Harry had no fault in her parents' death. They were all so young still, too young to know how to find and break Ministry trackers. In fact, Daphne would be the one to figure it out, three weeks later after the safe house in Milan blew up.

 _(But in the dark of night, when grief threatened to eat her mind and logic was distant, drowned out by the noise of Astoria trapped in another nightmare, Daphne would sometimes wonder if the books weren't all wrong. Replace his name with hers and the sentence made so much more sense, really. After all, there was only rebellion in Greengrass Manor because the eldest daughter couldn't mourn politely.)_

"Hey, Greengrass, you trying to hook up with a mermaid?" Parvati called, her mockery forcing Daphne from her memories. How pathetic, Daphne thought, that she had let herself be trapped there in the first place.

"Why, Patil, are you feeling jealous?" Daphne drawled, tucking her hands into her robe pockets to hide the latent tremble. Loathe as she was to admit it, Parvati was just what she needed at the moment. The feeling had become a habit since they had taken to sparring together, spurred on by their first impromptu match the morning Harry had slipped away. A month and a half later, Daphne couldn't imagine life without the pressure release.

Parvati grinned Cheshire-like, her mass of inky hair fighting against her braid. Her dark eyes danced with something wicked, something _wild_ , and she seemed almost to sway when she moved. She made Daphne think of vibrant silk, in vermillion and titian and evergreen, swirling playfully in the wind. She made Daphne want to reach out, feel the textures in her hands, and make something new of them. Unlike anything else since Greengrass Manor went to ash, Parvati Patil made Daphne Greengrass _want_ again.

"And if I am?" Parvati murmured, suddenly much closer than Daphne had thought.

Daphne bit her lip contemptuously and rose, fully prepared to flick Parvati away like she had every other unsafe bet. She was confident that even without a war she could woo Cormac back to her, set her life back onto the safest track, and play her cards to happiness. She had no desire to take a gamble, not like a silly, insipid –

"Then you had best get a move on, hadn't you?"

\- Gryffindor.

Heart hammering in her chest, Daphne daren't meet anyone's ( _especially Parvati's_ ) eyes as she strode from the common room. Her chin was high, her shoulders back. She knew she made the perfect image of pureblood royalty – as long as she didn't give into her sudden nausea and puke. In her dorm room – mercifully empty, thank Morgana – she splashed cold water on her face and stared at her reflection.

 _Oh, Daphne,_ she thought, _what have you done?_

Certainly nothing easy, her reflection seemed to murmur in reply.

* * *

As far as awful days went, Harry had seen worse. Hell, he could fill a calendar with days that beat out this one in terms of shittiness. A veritable year's worth of indescribable shittery, if you will. However, that is not to say that he was particularly enjoying his current experience.

Like a flock of nervous pygmy puffs, the Slytherin first year court stood huddled together around a glowing flame in the freezing Hogwarts courtyard. Milli, in a stroke of genius that had left Harry flinching with the memory of a young Hermione Granger, had conjured the bright green flame in an empty potions bottle provided by Draco. Now, Harry usually wasn't one to mind fresh air, but as he'd already braved the cold for an extra Quidditch practice that morning (with the actual game the next day), Harry was rather annoyed. The reason they were freezing their respective bits off instead of sitting in their toasty common room, frankly, ticked Harry off even more.

Terror, if one were to be vague; of Susan Bones, to be precise. Even more so of being in her way, if one wanted to get technical. Hence the diaspora from the Slytherin common room, where she and her selected council had set up shop.

"Promise me if I ever get batty enough to upset Susan, you'll kill me," Ron muttered, hands jammed in his pockets. Beside him, Neville nodded fervently.

"Done," Harry swore. "But only if you'll do me the same." Solemnly, the pact was returned and spread around the rest of the circle. It was the first bit of levity the first years had seen all day.

To the delight of no one, the Slytherin first years had woken to find a nasty surprise set for them. Someone had carved the Amortentia recipe into the stone of the first year dorms' hallway. Littering the floor were old, grungy copies of Rita's article on the Weasley's, and, most disconcertingly, in the picture above the article, which showed the full Weasley family before Molly's horrors had been revealed, the eyes of all the boys and Arthur had been scratched out. A sweet, coppery tang had filled the air and one by one the first years had looked at each other and nodded. Blood and decay. Yet, there had been no physical sign of either.

While not bluntly dangerous or enchanted, all of the first years had been disgusted and disturbed by the intrusion. If they each hadn't warded their doors and then had Theo check their work and add his own, would the attack have been worse? And, of course, there was also the notion that this was something more than Slytherin House politics to worry about. That someone knew something they weren't meant to.

However, to the returned that hadn't even been the truly nerve-racking part. No, that designation belonged solely to the murderous rage Susan had flown into. Over the months they had been together, Susan had grown very protective of her court. Maybe because she had once been a Hufflepuff, or maybe just because she was Susan, she had taken on something of a maternal role to the group. It was Susan who soothed Parvati's nightmares, made sure Dean didn't forget his sketchbook in the morning, reminded Neville to wash the dirt off his face, learned to recognize the signs of Draco's flashbacks – the list was endless. So when some third year twat laughed about the incident as they had reported it to Severus, Draco had been forced to pull her bodily from the idiot as she growled threats that had put Harry in mind of Bellatrix Lestrange.

After that incident, Susan had set herself to hunting the culprit. The entire first year court had decided to let her to it, wary of getting in her way. After all, the only one who had had even a little luck with soothing Susan had been Milli, and she had only been able coax Susan into some breakfast before the redhead had stormed off.

Since that fairly awful morning, Harry and the rest of the first year court had sat through their classes uninterrupted. However, the tension was slowly eating away at their calm facade. Finally, after having become more distracted with each hour, Milli had skipped last period and gone in search of Susan. Twenty minutes later, Milli had returned alone and solemnly informed the rest of the court that Susan had taken over the common room with Percy Weasley and the Twins and was holding a war council that not even Severus Snape dare tarry with. She had also handed Blaise a missive from Susan, one that had made Blaise pale before he had informed Draco to cover for him and ran off.

The entire scenario was rather quid pro quo for Susan's personality, Harry was finding, if not Blaise's. However, he was rather more concerned about Ron and Neville, who hadn't made any sort of emotional overtures since Lavender's shriek woke them all up. No one really was, honestly. The general reaction seemed to be disbelief, muted by worry and hesitancy. It reminded Harry of the War, and that stirred a deep, dark anger in Harry's heart. He'd felt the anger brewing for a little bit now, one that was only aggravated by the odd parallels he felt to his old life. Like standing out here in the cold around a brilliant girl's colorful fire. If Milli hadn't turned the flames Slytherin green in a blast of House pride, Harry wasn't sure what he would have done.

That Quirrell had limped by not twenty minutes ago (as if on fucking _cue_ ) hadn't helped much, either. Voldemort's shadow seemed to be leering ever-closer and Harry was really rather sick of it. The Hogwarts returned had not yet had a safe moment to gather together and discuss their time travel problems (that was scheduled for tomorrow, right after the Quidditch after-party) but Harry could see how the conversation would play out in his mind.

On one hand, Voldemort was Voldemort. No one knew better than the Hogwarts returned what a monster he had been, except those who had died by his hand. Theo, in their last life, had provided no small number of stories about Voldemort's cruelty to his own followers. A cruelty that driven Theo's father absolutely mad. On the other hand, the other children of Death Eaters had also all provided stories from the First War, where Voldemort featured almost as a kind family-figure, known affectionately as Mr. Marvolo. It was like talking about two different men: one evil, one caring.

The pros and cons of the Light side would need no discussion. All of the returned knew of the pain, the radicalism, the racism, and the genocide spurred by that denomination. To different degrees, yes, but that would change shortly. Soon no one in their group would be able to plead ignorant to the brutality of the Light. Yet, still: the Light weren't Voldemort. Who was to say life under Voldemort wouldn't have been just as horrifying? Certainly not Harry.

Beside him, Neville nudged his shoulder gently. "Don't worry, Harry. We'll figure this out soon enough."

Harry quirked his eyebrow, "I thought we were supposed to be comforting Ron over this nonsense?"

Beside Neville, Ron shrugged. "What's to comfort? Some low-level punk knows I have an aversion to Amortentia. So does most of the Wizarding World."

"They also broke past the hallway wards, though. Those weren't child's play." Parvati spoke up. Harry found himself a touch surprised – he had figured she was too busy admiring the green glow of the fire on Daphne's face to add anything. Since the girls' infamous exchange in the common room, Parvati had made it her mission to get a date out of Daphne. Daphne, of course, had replied by being as recalcitrant as possible. Being so focused on each other, Harry had barely heard a word from either of them for close to a week.

The twins, being the twins, had, of course, already set up a betting pool. The only bet Harry felt comfortable putting down was that the twins were going to have the start-up money for Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes by their fourth year.

"No," Daphne agreed, breaking Harry from his musings. She was looking pointedly away from Parvati, who grinned at her cheekily. "But they're not beyond a determined sixth year. And it has always been common in Slytherin to hire someone to fiddle for you what you can't manage yourself."

Dean chuckled lowly. "Now there's a sentiment I can appreciate."

"Oi!" Seamus grinned, "You'll be needing no foreign fiddling as long as I'm around!"

Daphne's nose wrinkled prettily as the two boys howled, elbowing Parvati sharply when she salaciously offered to _fiddle_ with Daphne any time she liked, free of charge. Before long, Harry was laughing to, along with Neville, Ron, and even Draco, who had been as grim-faced as Theo since Blaise had ditched him at Susan's command. Theo himself was shaking his head, a small smile curving his lips, while Milli struggled to smother her giggles behind a hand.

By the time the first years had control of their laughter, the bells were ringing for next class. Moving reluctantly and in a slow shuffle, they plodded back indoors, Milli canceling her charm only at the very last second. To the immense pleasure of his would-be husbands, Harry wore a smile the entire walk back, and did not once think of ghosts.

Perhaps, Harry would think later, that had been something of a misstep.

* * *

Unnoticed by the youth in the courtyard, an old man stepped away from where he had been watching. There was a pensive frown on his face. The window he had viewed them from belonged to a secluded classroom, long abandoned by the school. Now, though, it was due to be opened as a new magical language classroom – Latin, he thought. As if the students didn't learn enough Latin in their day-to-day lessons, he harrumphed. As a young man, Albus Dumbledore had learned the dangers of knowing too much of a seemingly harmless thing.

Leaving the classroom at a leisurely stroll, Albus made his way back to his office. On his desk was a report from Severus, detailing a matter involving the Slytherin first years. What an odd collection, that group was. Strange. Wrong. Very much not what Albus had planned for.

Albus shook his head, trailing his wrinkled fingers over the report. They were just children – nothing that could not be worked around, or even _through_ , if need be. As things were, it did seem that, unfortunately, there was a need.

Sighing heavily, the ancient wizard settled himself in his desk chair, feeling every bit his old age. Lethargy like this often became a problem when his plans went to hell. Such a glorious plan it had been, too! After having Harry Potter kill what was left of his old failure, Tom Riddle, Albus could finally ascend to true righteousness and lead the Wizarding World into a new era of freedom and Light. Such a burden had been his only goal since Arianna's death and his penance alone since Gellert's fall from grace. Yet, now, that plan seemed to have faltered. Years of sacrifice and strategy, all crumbled by a cruel turn of fate.

How, though? Albus had been so careful. Certainly dear Tom could not have orchestrated this. No, Albus had done well with euthanizing the boy's power once he had become too dangerous. As much as it had pained Albus, giving Arthur Weasley to Molly Prewett (Molly No-Name, now) had done well to assure that. But with Arthur now free of the Amortentia, could Tom have somehow gotten into contact? Could that be how Weasleys and Boneses and Potters and _Longbottoms_ had wound up in _Slytherin_? How politics had turned on its head?

No matter. The hows and whys were not a concern here as much as they had been in other plots of Albus'. Now, merely, was a time for action. Action that would one day restore Albus to his proper seat of power, where he could serve the Wizarding World best.

"And you, my dear, will be instrumental in returning this world to right." Albus promised, screwing up a warm smile for the blood-chilling tragedy opposite him. Coppery decay stung his nose as he met its eye. "Your name will live into time immemorial."

The thing – composed of vaporous, darkling grey and black, oily smoke that seeped from its translucent skin, pantomiming blood – grinned. The teeth were pearlescent, sticking jagged and broken from its distorted maw. Bones popped free from the face-flesh. Its fingers cracked and snapped, sticking gruesomely out of place. When it moved, it did not glide like the Hogwarts ghosts, but slunk along the walls like a hobbled, loathsome nightmare. New to this veiled existence, it would try to breathe sometimes, forcing its brutalized chest to expand and exhale – pushing bits of bones, flayed flesh, and inky miasmatic blood from the bared chest cavity.

Hermione Jean Granger had not been given an open casket funeral for good reason.

"Headmaster," it – _she –_ croaked, voice whistling through a shattered windpipe, head lolling on a broken neck to look at him. In the eye that hadn't been punctured and deflated by a piece of broken skull glittered a hate like Albus Dumbledore only saw now in his nightmares.

" _It will be my pleasure_."

* * *

 **Mwahaha! I bet you guys thought you'd seen the last of Miss Granger, huh? Well, actually I had, too, but I think it was one of you lovely reviewers who said something about ghosts and then, well, who am I to ignore such good advice? (*Mumbles* Plus I needed another antagonist.)**

 **Dumbledore - I finally have a plan for him! Yes! Hopefully this chapter drops some hints.**

 **Daphne/Parvati - I really like this pairing. Hopefully you guys will too.**

 **Other than that, I don't think I have anything else to say. Halloween largely inspired this chapter, so Happy Halloween! Thank you again for all the beautiful reviews, guys, they are seriously the life blood of this story! I can't wait to see what you think of this chapter! As always, I will reply back and please feel free to ask questions! Also, this is newly edited as of 8/20/2017.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	13. See No Evil

The next morning dawned early and bitterly cold. Harry woke to find himself reluctant to get out of bed even as the rest of the dorm began to shuffle awake. Thankfully, Neville murmuring cheeky things in his ear while Ron tugged playfully at his covers did wonders to put a smile on Harry's face.

Hesitant to wreck his good mood, Harry did himself a favour and made a point of ignoring the Amortentia recipe still on the hallway wall. Mercifully, the smell and the papers had gone with a simple vanisher but the carvings had refused to be moved by hand or magic. The only upside was that Dean seemed to be making a personal challenge of the wall. Every time he passed through, he paused critically and mumbled artistic noises until Seamus had no choice but to pull him away. If all else failed, Harry trusted that the man who would one day introduce muggle street art to the magical world would be able to make something amazing of the mystery attack.

 _If we could just figure out who did it,_ Harry mused, _we'd be golden_. Unfortunately, Susan and her war council continued to remain tight-lipped about the matter. There were many theories on the table, she had insisted when questioned, but they wanted to be sure before they said anything. By nature, both Harry and Draco had been eager to push her but there had been something forbidding in Susan's eyes. The pale complexion Blaise had adopted and the weariness in the faces of the elder Weasley brothers had only knotted Harry's guts further.

With much difficulty on both his and Draco's part, they had managed to tame their curiosity. Had they truly been eleven, such a feat would have been impossible. Harry supposed they must have learned how to let things simmer since then. Or, at least, he hoped they had. Either that or they were losing their touch.

Harry continued to mull over the last few days as he made his way into the Great Hall, flanked by Ron and Neville. He felt content, truth be told, which marked the day as one of his good ones. Or, at least, he had thought so. Then the delicious smell of fried sausages and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking forward to a good Quidditch match sunk into his skull.

"Today's the damn match, isn't it?" Harry asked, bug-eyed. His significant others exchanged significant looks, then ushered him down into his place at the Slytherin table.

Ron sighed as they settled in. "We knew it would hit you at some point. Just remember you're already quite handy at Quidditch, yeah?"

Harry nodded dumbly.

"You've got to eat some breakfast," Neville prompted. He was already buttering a piece of toast with which to reinforce his argument.

"I don't want anything," Harry said, feeling a bit sick. How had he forgotten the match? The last time around the nerves had haunted him for days!

 _The last time around you had quite a bit less to think about,_ his subconscious reminded. Harry _reminded_ it to shut up.

"Just a bit of toast," Neville insisted. Beside him, Susan looked up from the mess of notes on her lap to nod firmly in agreement.

Harry pushed his still-empty plate away. "I'm not hungry."

How could he be? In an hour's time, he would be walking onto the field to play his favourite game… against _Gryffindor_. Though he was grateful to play Quidditch at all now that he was a Slytherin, there was a part of him that still felt guilty. That Alicia Spinnet, Angela Johnson, and Katie Bell still glared daggers at Oliver Wood and the twins when they crossed in the halls did little to alleviate his feelings. The three had been a bit like elder sisters to Harry, once upon a time.

Around the rest of the table, Harry could see that the other former Gryffindors were feeling similarly. The twins seemed to bend into each other like a pair of weeping willows, while Oliver had his head turned into Marcus' whispered words. Even Lee, who had retained his place as announcer despite switching houses, looked solemn as he picked at his eggs. Interestingly, Cassius Warrington seemed to hover over him like a shield.

"Harry, you need your strength," Seamus cut in, interrupting Harry's observations. "Seekers are _always_ the ones who get clobbered by the other team," he added, grinning cheekily. Harry kicked him under the table.

"Dick," Harry grumbled. If that line hadn't helped him the first time around, it certainly wasn't going to do anything good on the second shot.

Seamus blew him a kiss before turning back to his full-time occupation: helping the dozing Dean navigate the perils of breakfast.

Casting a quelling glare at the lot of them, Ron nudged some eggs toward Harry. "Come on, Harry. You _love_ Quidditch – and look! Even Oliver's perked up a bit!"

Harry cast another glace towards the co-captains and did, in fact, see a wobbly smile on Oliver Wood's face. Apparently, even a change of team could not quite kill Oliver's love for the sport. The reminder did indeed cheer up Harry and slowly he felt his earlier happiness return.

Unnoticed at the head table, Dumbledore, too, offered the Slytherin elite a smile. However, had anyone looked up right then, they would have said his smile seemed rather sad. Regretful, even.

* * *

By eleven o'clock, the whole school seemed to be out in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many students had binoculars, which flashed sharply from the layers of clothing everyone was bundled in. Seeing an opportunity to present his court as better than the usual rabble, Draco had dowsed the lot of them in high-end warming charms. The rest of Slytherin House had cottoned on rather quickly and soon the only reason anyone looked like a marshmallow was to conceal the odd bottle of bootlegged butter beer.

Ron sat beside Neville, a single blanket spread across both their laps as an excuse to sit closer than public would rightly allow. Beside them, Draco and Blaise were absorbed in each other, much the same as the rest of Slytherin's couples and friends. They were all so focused on each other and the excitement in the air that not one of the Elite noticed they were being snuck up upon.

Grinning, Draco prattled on about Quidditch. Blaise paid attention with a humoring eye. "I can't wait to be on the team next year. Though, obviously, I won't be trying out for Seeker," Draco confided. Pausing for a moment of thought, he added slyly, "Perhaps Father can even be convinced to donate new brooms. It's not like the Gryffindors will ever win even _with_ equal brooms, but –"

"Now, now, Draco. We never know what surprises there may be before they happen," A voice murmured silkily. The Slytherins snapped to attention. Those who fully whipped around were greeted by the commanding form Lucius Malfoy, a smattering of other adults trailing after him.

With barely more than a nod of acknowledgment, Draco rose and accepted a quick hug from his father. Perfectly respectable for public –only those who knew him well saw the tremor in Draco's smile and hands as he pulled away. Hidden in his perfect posture, Lucius' figure seemed to sympathize. Neither stepped away and instead they stirred up a soft conversation layered in double meanings.

Half a step behind Lucius' immaculate figure, Remus Lupin grinned broadly at the pair. He was obviously awaiting his own hug from his all-but-son. The werewolf looked a good sight better than Blaise had ever seen him, his form hale and whole. Three months of Lucius' affections and the safety of his friends and family had done wonders for the man. Clean-shaven and his hair curling slightly with a little extra length, he appeared years younger in a long charcoal peacoat and slacks that were obviously hand-tailored.

Blaise's felt his expression gentle. Never let it be said that Lucius Malfoy wasn't the world's most fastidious mother hen – terrifying politician or not. Yet, there was something missing from the couple. Or, more precisely, _someone_. A little swirl of sorrow stirred in Blaise's chest as he noted the absence of the youngest Malfoy. Theodoric "Teddy" Narcissus Malfoy had been (and _would be_ ) a bright, energetic child who had adored his big brother. Draco, in turn, would have died for Teddy. As history stood, Draco had only been in time to cut Teddy's corpse down from the gallows before Light urchins could desecrate it. Blaise knew from experience that most of Draco's nightmares stemmed from that night.

A hand over his queasy stomach, Blaise reluctantly acknowledged that that was also the night he had started keeping secrets from Draco, only to brush the thought away. There were times for those sorts of thoughts, he justified. A Quidditch match was not one.

Amelia Bones crested the stairs next, giving Blaise something fresh to focus on. She appeared both severe and stylish in trim navy robes. Susan waved at her madly, then gave up on respectability and pushed her way to her aunt. Amelia accepted a tight hug, leaving one arm around her niece instead of pulling away. Susan beamed up at her adoringly. Out of the corner of his eye, Blaise caught Lavender snapping a picture he was sure he would see on the front page of _the Prophet_ next week. Of course, assuming the Weasley reunion didn't push the photo back.

Though confined to the tight seating of the Quidditch stands, Blaise would insist to his last breath that Ron and Percy had _flown_ over him in their rush to wrap their arms around their father. Arthur held them desperately, his lean frame clinging to his boys. There didn't seem to be any plans to let go between them. Eventually, it was Ron's frustration with Lavender's clicking camera that drew the three apart, laughter and suspiciously red eyes spread liberally between father and sons.

As Arthur turned to greet the rest of the group, Blaise could barely restrain his surprise. Logically, he had already known that Amortentia took a toll on the consumer. However, seeing Arthur Weasley three months free put a whole new spin on that reality. Gone was the haggard, worn tone to the man's face. He had filled out a little, taking on a wiry physique that reminded of Bill and Ron. His hair shone brightly, thicker and glossier than before, growing out into curls like Percy's. His mossy eyes glimmered with mischief that matched the twins and he wore Bill's confident half-smile. Many of the lines and wrinkles around his face had evened out, leaving him with the agelessness most pureblood magicals maintained long into their years.

Blaise had never known Arthur Weasley, though he had become very close to the Weasley brothers over the years. Looking at the man – tall, unbowed, and so very kind even after facing so much cruelty – Blaise felt regretful of that. Such an awful world they had come from, Blaise thought. Perhaps it was only right that they had a chance to fix such a mess. To gain a little peace.

"It's okay, Dad," Ron murmured, just a touch louder than he needed to. Arthur's shoulders slumped like a man cut from the cross, Percy's fingers tangled together with Arthur's.

Restless ghosts, Blaise thought, are powerful creatures indeed.

Sucking in a breath, Percy plastered a 'prefect' smile on his face and straightened. "Right, then," he cleared his throat and motioned to a few nameless Slytherin hangers-on. "You lot, budge over! Can't you see we have some important people to seat before the match starts up?" The Slytherins scattered, eyes large in the face of Percy's imperiously raised eyebrow and glare. Obviously, Percy had hit his emotional threshold for the day.

Laughing, Ron returned to his seat beside Neville, his father now sandwiched between he and Percy. Amelia Bones joined Susan's side, with Blaise, Draco, Lucius, and Remus filling up the rest of row. The remaining Slytherin elite adjusted accordingly, repositioning to best spy on the new, most unusually important faces in the crowd.

"Bill and Charlie send their love," Arthur said after everyone had finished shuffling about. By some miracle, no one had managed to trip down the stands in all the commotion. "Charlie had some business at the reserve to clear up before the holidays. Bill, ah, mentioned something about his boyfriend."

Arthur still wasn't too sure what to make of Fenrir Greyback. He hadn't managed to meet the man before he'd died but he was familiar with his crimes. However, Arthur thought wryly, if there was anyone who knew about judging books by their covers, it was him.

Ron grinned wickedly, "I bet he did. Probably has his hands all _full_." Neville smacked him across the back of the head, cuing a round of snickers. However, Ron found himself frowning as he scanned the assembled adults. "Didn't Sirius and Narcissa want to come? And did no one stop to drag Severus out of the dungeons?"

Pausing, Neville nodded his agreement.

Lucius sighed. "You wouldn't _believe_ the lengths Narcissa went to in keeping her dear cousin from charging up here. However, we had concluded that seeing Sirius here in the audience might encourage Harry to fly into the damn stands if he didn't have ample warning. As the castle's mostly empty for the game, I believe Severus is at Malfoy Manner with the mutt as we speak."

Remus nudged his – boyfriend? Ron didn't see a ring yet. "Honestly, Lucius. If Severus can get over his rivalry, I don't see why you can't."

Lucius' eyebrows shot up. "'Get over his rivalry?' I'm sorry, but I wasn't aware I was the only one who had realized that Severus had merely come up with a more _creative_ way of working it out."

"I thought Dumbledore didn't allow adult visitors!" Susan cut-in, both quickly and loudly. She did _not_ need any more images of Severus Snape and Sirius Black in her head than that one sentence had already given her.

Her aunt laughed, Amelia's hand settling warmly on Susan's shoulder. Susan could have wept for how good the contact felt. "Who is Dumbledore to deny the Minister of Magic and her associates a tour, especially after the Troll Incident?" Amelia winked, "Dumbledore must step carefully now, if he's able to step at all."

Susan smiled at her aunt's words. She liked the sound of a world like that – a world like _this_. She would give her all to keep it.

Thinking of the recent attacks, Susan just hoped it wouldn't have to come to that.

* * *

Harry took a deep breath. Just like the last time, his Quidditch uniform fit him perfectly. However, that didn't stop him from fiddling nervously with his arm guards until Marcus affectionately threatened to cut his fingers off. Harry took another deep breath and tried to let the nerves wear away. In the background, he could hear Oliver chewing Marcus out:

"– Traumatizing my prize Seeker with your brutish idiocy right before the game!"

"Love, hate to break it to you, but we're on the same team now – "

"Doesn't matter, _love_ , I'm still the one who trained him!"

It was almost soothing, really. Oliver, for all he was a driven, slave-driving bastard, was very protective of _his_. Be it his Quidditch players, his raiding party, his lover, whatever – woe betide he who tread on the toes of Oliver Wood's nearest and dearest. Honestly, Harry was still a bit confused about how Oliver _hadn't_ would up in Slytherin the first time around.

"Sorry, oh captains ours – "

"But if you don't get a move on right about _now_ – "

"Gryffindor might just take our delay as a forfeit!" The twins pronounced together. They smiled winningly as the older years blinked stupidly for a moment.

"Right," Oliver said, pretending he hadn't had a leg all but slotted between Marcus' thighs. Marcus similarly removed his possessive hand from Oliver's arm, allowing them to stand shoulder to shoulder again. On either side of Harry, Graham Montague and Adrien Pucey raised an eyebrow.

Oliver cleared his throat, probably wishing he looked a little less flushed. "Right," he said again, "This is the best team Slytherin's had in years – "

"Oliver," Marcus cut in grandly, "Slytherin's had the best team for the last _six_ years. You should know," he added teasingly.

Oliver's eye twitched violently. "Marcus, so help me _Merlin_ –"

"You'll tie me down? Beat me up? Oh, darling, only if _you_ want to." Marcus hummed, fluttering his eyelashes.

"You _wish_ ," Oliver hissed.

Marcus winked. "You know, I –"

"Alright!" Adrien Pucey called, prefect-instincts kicking in. "I think that's enough – whatever that was. How about we just get out there, kick some arse, and then," he looked pointedly at the co-captains, "You can finish – _this_."

Harry and Graham nodded fervently. The twins looked considering but nodded sharply once Harry made a kicking motion in their direction.

Oliver sighed dramatically and gestured for everyone to get into lineup. "Fine. But if we lose because I didn't get to give my lucky speech, it's on Flint."

Marcus smirked. "Now there's what I call a no-lose bet."

And with that last quip, Slytherin finally moseyed ( _gratefully_ , in most cases) out onto the pitch.

Harry smiled as crisp, fresh wind assaulted his face. His cleats sunk into the frozen ground with a satisfying crunch and the roaring crowd turned up the heat in his blood. Over in the Slytherin section he could pick out Dean, Seamus, and Milli, a giant banner spread between them. Instead of the muggle slogan he had done in their last life, Dean had drawn a stylized snake. It wound across the sheet slowly, spelling out Harry's initials. HJP hung proudly for a moment before exploding off the page in a wave of green sparks, revealing the proud Slytherin emblem.

Harry whooped, waving so they would know he had seen. The three roared back, proud and happy, and _damn_ was it good to be on the Quidditch pitch again! Why had he ever been nervous?

In his head, Harry could imagine Neville and Ron's exasperated smiles. Obviously, they knew him _much_ better than he did himself – frankly, he was lucky they put up with his nonsense. He just loved them all the more for their persistence.

Grinning like a loon, Harry followed the twins into the Slytherin lineup. Opposite them, Alicia Spinnet, Angela Johnson, and Katie Bell glared from a line of Gryffindors Harry didn't recognize. Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the middle of the field, waiting for the two teams. Her broom stood ramrod straight in her hand.

Once they were all around her, she leveled a mild glare at them. "Now, I want a nice fair game, you hear me?" Harry noticed that she seemed to be speaking particularly to Marcus, who smirked. Oliver kicked him when he thought no one was looking. Or perhaps he just didn't care who saw. Regardless, Harry rolled his eyes. Was this what he, Ron, and Neville were like? If so, he couldn't imagine how they hadn't been hexed yet.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught another sight of the fluttering banner high above. His heart skipped. His worries seemed to melt away as he wrapped his hands around his broom more firmly.

"Mount your brooms, please," Madame Hooch called.

Harry grinned, swinging a leg over his Nimbus Two Thousand.

Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle.

Fifteen brooms rose up high, high into the air. They were off.

"And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor — what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too —"

"JORDAN!"

"Sorry, Professor!" Lee laughed into the microphone. He sounded happier than he had in days. "And she's really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, last year only a reserve — back to Johnson, and — no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle! Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes — Flint flying like an eagle up there — he's going to sc— oh, he scores! Ten points to Slytherin! The Slytherins receive the Quaffle again and Flint passes it, Pucey dodges a beater as he scores another ten points to Slytherin!"

Harry spiraled higher as Lee's announcements drifted through the air. A giddy feeling coursed through his veins, encouraging him to throw his head back and laugh to the wind. Merlin, but he had _missed_ Quidditch. In this life, Harry swore, he was going to pull an Oliver and dive straight into professional Quidditch after Hogwarts, evil wizards be damned!

Chuckling at his own fantasy, Harry turned his attention to hunting the snitch. The Gryffindor Seeker was still on the other side of the pitch, so Harry had felt confident playing around a bit before flying for the kill. He had been tracking the snitch idly since it had been released, so zeroing in on it now wasn't any hardship.

Lee's voice came again from below, calling the current score as, "360 – 20, Slytherin House! And that last one only flew in because co-captains Flint and Wood were making kissy-faces through the hoop!"

"Jordan, I am warning you!" McGonagall screeched. Harry decided to hurry things along before Lee lost his job.

Picking up speed, Harry angled his broom down and dropped sharply. A wave of gasps ran across the bleachers and Harry let the tension fuel him. Just as he was about to splat into the frosty ground, he jack-knifed up, puling himself into a glide just a bit above the ground. The crowd went wild and Merlin, Harry knew he would be hearing about that move from absolutely _everyone_. However, it paid off as his fingers curled around the glimmering golden snitch, stopping the game and –

Harry's broom snapped roughing, jerking his head back. His broom thrashed like a feral thing, rising quickly without his consent and twisting so violently Harry felt his gut bottom out. Sure, he had been doing the usual shifts in the Room of Requirement, but he still definitely did _not_ have the strength needed to keep on the damn broom. Fucking _gods_ , how had he forgotten about this little fun fact of his first match? _Oh, shit,_ Harry thought, _if_ I _forgot about this, does that mean Severus did, too?_

It certainly seemed like it. The jerking was much more violent than Harry remembered and he seemed to be going much _faster,_ much _higher_ than before. If this had happened the first time around, Harry _definitely_ would have fallen to his death. As it was, he was just barely holding on when he caught a flash of silvery magic and felt the broom gently, firmly pull down.

The curse magic fought the new opposition's bitterly, as it had before, but the new caster was just as strong as Severus. No longer in panic mode, Harry was just feeling safe enough to curse Quirell _viciously_ when a burning cold made him whip his hand away from his broom.

"What the hell?" Harry choked, eyes wide. Little black lines were spreading across the broom handle, shriveling the wood as a Dementor might a flower.

"Well, that's new, at least," he dithered. Not needed or wanted, particularly _now_ , but new. Gingerly, Harry moved backward on the broom, hyperaware of his achingly slow descent. If he upset the broom's weight balance too much, he could risk tilting the battle of wills around him in a _very_ unfortunate way. However, the cold leeching along the wood was unearthly; possibly lethal. Harry's Quidditch glove was blackened and cracked where it had contacted the cold, his flesh under the leather numb.

"What the hell," he hissed again, almost wonderingly. He had never seen anything like this outside of Azkaban. What could cause-

Harry hissed again as the cold caught his other hand, sliding back as far as he dared. Alright, Potter, _so_ not the time for questions. Especially as he was, oh, still about eighty-ish feet from safety. Would someone cushion-charm him fast enough if he jumped? Maybe, if he hung by the hand for a minute or two before he let go. But that would _definitely_ throw off the broom's balance. Surely Ron or Neville would be quick enough on the draw, though. It wasn't like Harry had much other choice, anyway – there was barely any uninfected broom left.

Keeping a leery eye on the creeping black, Harry carefully adjusted himself to sit side-saddle. Below him, the crowd hissed and screamed. Those with binoculars were shouting anew, calling over teachers. _Probably noticed the black shit,_ Harry thought with a petulant glare. Harry Potter couldn't even fall off a cursed broom normally, apparently.

Sucking in a last breath, Harry adjusted his grip – damn, that fucking _murdered_ his injured hands, fuck – and swung down. The crowd screamed, Harry joining them. Quickly, he pulled himself up enough to hook his elbows around the broom, unable to use his hands. Both were screaming at him, blood seeping through his ruined gloves. Beneath his elbows, the broom bucked and jerked, jarring Harry's shoulders. However, he had obviously made the right choice. The very tip of the handle was black now, mangled and twisted. Little pieces flaked away with sharp motions. The veins seemed to be moving faster, now, too.

Feeling ill to his very bones, Harry looked about the stadium, hoping to see a wand raised –

" _No, none of that_ ," A voice jeered. It was an ugly, strangled thing, feminine only in the most basic of senses. Harry whipped his head around, instincts shrieking, but all he could detect was a sudden wave of suffocating _rot_. Coughing as the smell sunk into his lungs, Harry fought to withhold his nausea.

A snapping, cracking sound brought Harry back to the broom above him. The damn thing was _disintegrating,_ the first half gone in seconds. Below Harry, the screaming intensified. Fleetingly, Harry thought of Ron and Neville at breakfast. How he wished he had eaten the damned toast, just so he could have seen Neville's pleased smile one more time. Taken the eggs from Ron, just so Ron would puff up his chest, confident in knowing he had taken care of Harry. It was always the little things that meant the most, really. A pity Harry had forgotten that.

" _Goodbye, snake_ ," the voice wheezed, high and satisfied. The broom gave way like it was made of tissue paper.

Angry, angry eyes were the last impression Harry caught before everything was falling,

Falling,

Black.

* * *

 **So, how'd you guys like this one, haha? *Cringes* Please don't hate me! I promise we'll be getting into some happier, more holiday stuff next chapter! And Sirius, too!**

 **Um, changes to Lone's story should be pretty obvious here. Reason why Sirius, Cissa, and Sev weren't with the adults was because it works better for the next chapter. You'll see what I mean. Also, this is newly edited as of 8/20/2017. Anyway, hope you liked this one! As always, feel free to send me a review with questions, comments, worried screaming, you name it! Hearing from you guys is the best part of my day!**

 **Hope to hear from you soon!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	14. Under Guard

"Ah, Mr. Potter. I am glad to see that you have woken."

Truth be told, Harry didn't feel much woken at all. His head ached like the hangover of 98' (which was _never_ to be talked about) and his body was pins-and-needles with what had to be healing magic. The whole world felt fuzzy and distant. However, Harry was a creature of instinct – and if anything sent his instincts into action, it was a close proximity to Albus Dumbledore.

Eyes snapping open, Harry struggled to pull himself to a defensible position. Had he been a little more cognizant, he might have thought to play dead, so to speak, but alas. The unexpectedly trapped couldn't be expected to strategize, or something like that.

"Ah, ah, ah," the old man tutted, stilling Harry's attempts with a well-meaning look. Harry barely restrained a flinch. "Poppy will have me thrown out if she think's I have upset you. I merely wished to inform you about your incident before your guardians arrived."

Incident? What - ? Oh, Merlin. He had fallen off his broom! Or, rather, been thrown off the damn thing. Memory of those hateful eyes rose up in Harry, venomous with icy rage. A lingering impression of that rotting death-stench filled his nose. He had to suck in a breath or risk losing his lunch.

Ron and Neville must be going mad, Harry thought, using the idea to focus. Where were they? Had Dumbledore blocked them from the room? How long had he been unconscious?

"What?" Harry wound up croaking, his voice rough with disuse. His thoughts seemed to chase themselves around in his head. He swallowed, throat sticky, but didn't try to gesture for the water at his bedside. Later in life, Dumbledore would become infamous for lacing the lemon drop candies on his desk and his tea service with a myriad of trust potions – Harry wouldn't put it past the old codger to dose the water. Dumbledore didn't offer, besides. Maybe he wanted Harry as ruffled as possible? Or maybe he just hadn't developed the lacing technique yet. Thinking of all the variables made Harry's head hurt. Where were Neville and Ron? Draco, Daphne, or any of the others? What was going on? How long had Dumbledore been skulking at his bedside? Against his best intentions, Harry found himself thinking of his first time around. How the only adults who had seemed to care about his near-death from magical exhaustion were Dumbledore and Hagrid. Surely that wouldn't be the case again, right?

"It would appear that someone has tampered with your broom, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore clarified, his words dragging Harry from his head. Harry studiously avoided making eye-contact, aware enough at least to know that the occlumency shields he had built since returning would be nothing against Dumbledore. Instead, he tried to look a bit stunned by the news and perhaps a bit cowed by the presence of such a powerful wizard.

Dumbledore smiled at him indulgently. Harry hoped that meant he was a better actor than he was an occlumens. "They," Dumbledore continued, "Whoever they were, laid a quite nasty curse that caused the broom to jump about and then disintegrate. If it had not been for the quick spellwork of myself and Lord Malfoy, I fear events would be much less fortunate than they are now."

' _Myself and_ _ **Lord**_ _Malfoy?_ ' Draco wasn't yet a – wait, was _Lucius_ at the school? _What?_ Maybe Harry wasn't sunk, after all. Harry brushed that detail away for the moment, his head swimming with too much information. Doubtlessly, Dumbledore at least suspected that Quirrell was behind the broom curse. Keep your enemies closer, after all. But the old man was trying to sell the, for lack of a better word, _cold_ as part of Quirrell's curse? That was new. Widening his eyes in innocent fear, gaze directed just down a bit, Harry decided two could play Dumbledore's game.

"How is that possible, sir?" Harry murmured, his voice quivering just a touch. "I've kept the broom in my room since I received it."

Dumbledore sighed, his shoulders rolling as though to adjust a crushing weight. "I am afraid, Mr. Potter, that dark times are coming to these halls. Sometimes those closest to us are those who make the most terrible decisions."

Was the bastard actually implying that Harry's Slytherin dorm-mates, his _friends,_ had cursed his broom? As far as Dumbledore knew, not one of them was over eleven! How could _school children_ have somehow worked such malicious magic? Well, Harry guessed school children _had_ thought to trap another student in with a troll – perhaps cursing a broom wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility. Dumbledore didn't know about the troll bit, though.

Harry decided Dumbledore was still a tosser for trying to turn him against his housemates. Their being actually fairly murderous held no bearing. Not when Harry was quite probably the worst of them.

Not that Dumbledore was to know that, either.

"Sir," Harry gasped, aiming for stunned. "You don't actually think one of my friends might have done this?"

Dumbledore shared a weary, aged look with Harry. "I fear that children do not often understand the gravities of their actions. Actions which sometimes grow from the influence of their parents. Tell me, Harry, can you think of anyone who might have had reason to do this? Perhaps someone who might have been unkind about your parents?"

Harry tilted his head. "My parents, sir?"

The old man smiled kindly. "Yes, they were Gryffindors, you know? My old house. Your father was quite the talented Chaser and your mother was the brightest Charms Mistress of her age. Both quite handy at Defense, as well."

Harry blinked, smiling shyly. "Really? I never knew. Why would someone have a problem with them, sir?"

The old man sighed. "Not everyone is as accepting as you may believe, Harry. I will admit that I worry for you in Slytherin. Please, always know that you may speak to me at any time."

Harry gave the old man a blinding grin, very much all 'Orphan-Annie-Suddenly-Has-A-Family'. "Oh, I wouldn't worry, sir. The Malfoys have made sure I feel _very_ welcome."

Dumbledore gave Harry a quiet, tortured look. "Oh, my boy. That is _exactly_ what I fear. You must be wary of who you trust –"

The doors to the medical wing slammed open, letting in a thunder of footsteps. Both Harry and Dumbledore jerked, surprised by the sudden intrusion. They couldn't see who had entered, the privacy curtain at the foot of Harry's bed having been drawn. Usually the curtains were only drawn for long-term patients, to provide a little privacy. Harry wondered once again just how long he had been out to warrant such treatment when a barrage of _very_ recognizable voices froze him dead.

"Sirius Black, you stop this _instant_!"

" _Lord_ Black, now, Poppy! And if you had lead me to my godson when I damn well _asked_ there wouldn't be anything to stop!"

"Mr. Black, if you would just calm down –"

" _Hogwarts_ , Minnie, you let him nearly die at _Hogwarts_. If not for Lucius, I might be picking up a _corpse_!"

"I – we –"

"I believe my fellow _Lord_ is quite correct, _Professor_. Now, step aside."

"Please, Professor. The week has already been hard enough."

" _Mr_. Lupin! I _insist_ you, at least, put an end to this madness! Poppy is _perfectly capable_ – "

"And Lady Black-Malfoy is only more so, Minevra. _Let us through_."

"Severus!"

A leather-clad arm swept aside the curtains drawn around Harry's 'room'. Sirius Black grinned brightly, a prince among his squabbling courtiers.

"How do you feel about a prison break, pup?"

* * *

The next thirty minutes rushed past with Harry in a daze. Upon sighting Dumbledore at Harry's bedside, the last snatch of good humor had drained from Sirius' grey eyes. Had Walburga Black's portrait been present, she would have gone into paroxysms of joy as her eldest dressed down the Light Lord. Harry was convinced the only reason Sirius hadn't gone for his wand was Severus' staying hand. Dumbledore had done his best to use his past relationship with Sirius to his advantage but Sirius wouldn't have it. Dumbledore had given up and flown the coop as soon as Sirius threatened to sue, Lucius Malfoy grinning gleefully over Sirius' shoulder.

The space beside Harry then free, Sirius had set up shop. No one seemed inclined to try and move him. Even Ron and Neville, who had stumbled in with what seemed like three quarters of Slytherin and all of Honeyduke's stock, were made to go around Sirius. Harry got the impression of a large, black guard dog, which was so appropriate Harry couldn't withhold a smile.

With the same authority, Lucius and Remus had taken to soothing the ruffled scales of Slytherin House. In the days Harry had been unconscious, obviously very little information on his condition had been given out. Slytherin, and the Elite in particular, had spent that time worrying. Slytherins were protective, Harry had found. That manifested in a flair for togetherness that appeared hostile to outsiders. However, being the focus of that was just as overwhelming. In total, it took not just Lucius and Remus, but a haggard Draco and exhausted Susan to convince Slytherin House to back down.

With Sirius stationed, Slytherin House soothed, and Dumbledore (and, on his heels, McGonagall) chased away, Severus set to harassing the last target: Madame Pomfrey. Once Harry's medical scroll was in hand, he sharply dismissed the woman and sealed the Hospital Wing doors. His black wards rolled over the doors smoothly, keeping prying eyes and ears out.

"All they told us was that you were alive, too unstable to move to St. Mungo's, and unconscious," Ron murmured scratchily. His hair was an oily mess, his face ghostly beneath his freckles. At his side, Neville appeared much the same. Dark circles curled under both of their eyes. They sat on the edge of Harry's bed, opposite Sirius. Neville played idly with the fingers of Harry's right hand while Sirius clutched his left.

 _Sirius_. If Harry thought about that too much right now, he might just lose his mind. Instead, he snuggled closer into the arm Neville had wrapped around his shoulders.

"Unstable?" Harry asked, frowning. That was new. "I've never been deemed that from just falling off a broom. And how long have I been out?"

Ron's face hardened. "A week," he said and brushed his hand against Harry's leg, as though to remind himself Harry was alive. "It felt like much longer."

Neville's hand was tight around Harry's. "We weren't told anything or allowed to see you. Lucius and Sirius only knew anything because they're your guardians."

Beside Harry, Sirius snorted. "And we had to fight just for that. Somehow the paperwork still had Dumbledore as your magical guardian. Apparently _the_ _Dursleys_ appointed him." Sirius growled the name, his eyes flashing with the animal cruelty of his dog form. "We had to bring in the Goblins and the combined might of the Black and Malfoy lawyers to get the old fuck to give up his claim."

Sirius paused for a moment, his face going contemplative. "Also, can I just say that you having a frame of reference for falling off brooms is enough to make my hair grey, pup. Knock it off before you make me look old."

"You're already old," Harry quipped. He blinked as the remark slipped out. He had forgotten how easy the relationship between he and Sirius was. Had been. _Would always be, dear Merlin,_ please _._

 _Don't get your hopes up. He doesn't know what you've done, yet_ , the voice whispered. Fuck off, Harry replied firmly. He squeezed Sirius' hand as if to prove a point.

Sirius grinned at him, warm and caring. He, too, bore dark circles around his eyes. The result of late nights spent worrying, pouring over law documents, Harry thought guiltily. The gauntness of his face, however, was more likely Azkaban's doing. "Doesn't mean you need to speed up the process," Sirius said.

"Yes, for my sake, please refrain, Mr. Potter," Severus snarked, appearing next to Harry's bed as silent as smoke. He held a rolled up scroll in his hands. "He complains enough as it is. I can only imagine how much worse he will be with age."

"Hey," Sirius cried, faux-hurt. "You adore my whining!"

"As to your medical observations," Severus carried on, eyes focused on Harry. He completely ignored Sirius, who pouted dramatically. "Your instability was not caused from the fall. Rather, that was due to the curse you smacked your hands all over. It had made quick progress towards your heart."

Harry drew in a deep breath, thinking back to how much pain the cold had caused just to his hands. They were all healed now, not even a scar to show, but Harry doubted he would ever forget the terror of that chill. The solemnity of Severus' expression made him think he was right not to.

Gathering his bravado, Harry managed a scoff. "Yeah, sorry. Next time I'll just throw myself off the steadily climbing broom nice and quick - ouch!"

Sirius smirked, apparently _smug_ for having yanked at Harry's hair. "How about just not having a next time?"

Ron snorted, smiling grimly. "Personally, I'll take broom jumping over mystery curses."

"Because, you know, staying safe is just so improbable," Neville said. There was a note in his voice, a bitterness that killed the light air the room was taking on.

The adults exchanged glances.

"I feel that we do not yet know the whole story," Severus said.

Sirius nodded, his fingers wound tight with Harry's. His eyes, however, sought out Severus. "Lucius filled us in, somewhat. But, well, you know. He, Rem, and Cissa - they weren't there for much more than us."

Ron responded, Harry having slipped back into his head and Neville not looking prone to. "Yeah, we know. We," he nodded to Severus, who inclined his head, "Were trying to get something set up, but, well. That kind of fucked up when someone tried to take out Harry."

Neville smacked his arm. "Ron!"

Ron didn't react. Instead, he curled his fingers lightly around Harry's calf. "It's not like it's not true. Harry wasn't meant to survive this. Whoever cursed that broom was trying to _kill_ him."

"Ron," Harry censured, tilting his head in Sirius' direction. The man had gone pale, his grip on his godson white-knuckled. Severus had come to rest a hand on Sirius' shoulder.

"Sorry," Ron said after a beat. "Just, I hate that we don't know what's going on."

"And we won't for much longer," Lucius Malfoy commented, stepping into the cubical, which was becoming rather crowded by this point. Remus was at his heel. "I've made arrangements with the school. Harry will be returning with us to the Manor. He can fill us in. I'm also pulling Draco. We can explain this to the press as a family matter-"

"What?" Neville snapped, winding his hand closer with Harry's. "Why?"

"Slytherin will go into chaos without Harry and Draco." Ron added, his voice, though light and high as a young boy's, was every inch the general in tone. "It's been bad enough with the attacks and this week. And I don't want Harry out of my sight besides."

"Ron -" Sirius began but Ron cut him off.

"No, you don't get it," Ron said. "This is how it all happened last time. Love potion poisoning, threats, and assassination attempts – we were isolated and defenseless. Now you want to separate Draco and Harry from the rest of us?"

"There has been an attack," Lucius cut in severely. "It's safest -"

"But it's not," Neville insisted. Harry flinched as Neville's blunt nails dug into his hand. "We've been through this before. The minute we break apart they will pick us off one by one."

"Draco won't go, anyway." Harry stated, interrupting what was becoming a steadily more heated argument. "Neither will I."

"Harry," Sirius said, tiredly, and Harry had to force his guilt to the side. He looked to his lovers instead. He took a deep breath as words flooded into his mind.

"I'm sorry," Harry began, his voice as logical as he could make it. "But, frankly, this isn't the worst situation I've stuck through. Not Draco's, either, or Ron's, or Neville's, or Susan's, or Theo's, or Dean's. We've all lived in worse, before and after you lot died. But, if we scatter, the situation will escalate. Less prepared people will be attacked. Or what if no one is here to stop Voldemort from getting the Stone? It's still in the school, you know. Or, Merlin forbid, what if Slytherin acting weird tips Dumbledore off?"

"Draco and I need to be here," Harry stated. "If only to mitigate whatever disaster happens next." Harry grinned ruefully, "It's sort of our specialty."

The adults exchanged another round of glances. Harry wondered what would happen if they tried to fight his decision. Technically, they had the authority as guardians to do what they wished, but Harry, Draco, and all the rest - they had the minds of twenty-somethings, of war veterans. They wouldn't take kindly to being directed.

"Fine," Lucius sighed at last. There was a concern in his voice that was never present in public. "But over the holidays -"

"We will all come to the Manor," Harry promised. "But we won't run away when the rest of Hogwarts can't."

Sirius shook his head, reaching over to pull Harry into a hug. His arms were strong around Harry, protective and parental. His leather jacket - once again Sirius', not Harry's - felt like a shield. Harry just barely managed to keep his tears under lock.

"How did you manage to go and grow up on me?" Sirius asked, grinning sadly.

Harry choked on a laugh, amazed that he managed to get a laugh out at all. "Somewhere between killing a Dark Lord and becoming one, I expect."

At the surprised expressions of all those who weren't physically eleven, Harry just barely managed a shrug. It felt like a lie but Harry was beginning to make peace with dishonesty.

* * *

For Harry, Christmas came to Hogwarts in a paranoid haze. Unlike the first time around, where Harry's incident went virtually unnoticed, everyone was now highly aware. The school whispered and gossiped and none of the Slytherin Elite allowed Harry to go anywhere alone. Not that Ron and Neville ever moved from Harry's side, anyway. As they had during the love potion threat, they slept in the same bed and held hands under the table. Ron, who had been frustrated to find out that a betrothal contract would have made he and Neville as privy to Harry's medical information as a guardian, had already sent a letter to his father. Neville had sent a similar letter to his grandmother. Once the formal papers were drafted, all Harry had to do was accept.

It felt strange, doing things this way, Harry thought. The last time they had gotten involved, there had been no betrothal, no letters, no permission to ask for. They had been in an auror camp, he, Neville, and Ron all sharing one tent. They had tumbled into each other and then into bed together. It was just a war thing, they had agreed. Like how the alcohol and the violence were just war things. He and Ron, they had both had wives at home. They hadn't been able to imagine being together with Neville ever possibly being _beyond_ a war thing. Or, well, they had - but then the guilt kicked in. Ginny and Hermione, sitting at home. Of course, then they hadn't known they were at home brewing love potions. Just that they were at home and he and Ron were not. They were imagining a life with each other and Neville where Ginny and Hermione didn't factor.

It had been a special kind of hell. Always checking over their shoulders, aware of how _the Prophet_ would crucify them. If anything, Neville had it the worst. While love potions created false guilt and agony in Ron and Harry, Neville had felt the real deal. He had thought he was intruding on a pair of genuine relationships. The love poisoning had almost come as a relief.

If Harry closed his eyes, he could remember the night they had found out like he was living it over. The camp had been given a weekend's leave, a reward for all the Death Eaters they had apprehended. Harry had loitered behind, disinterested in going back to Ginny's apartment. Neville, whose grandmother had died before the Battle, had done the same. Ron hadn't. He had gone home to Hermione, flowers in hand. He had been planning to surprise her. Heh. He had been the one surprised.

Harry would never forget the rage on Ron's face when he returned to camp. A pure, burning, dark rage. His magic had crackled brilliant oranges and reds over his skin, lighting his hair and the sharp angles of his face. Harry had thought him beautiful - terrible, in his anger, but absolutely beautiful. He had pulled Harry into his arms and kissed him, hard and demanding. With Harry still dazed, he had reached for Neville and kissed him, too.

' _Oh_ , _thank Merlin,'_ Ron had whispered, pulling them both close, his long fingers knotting in their hair. ' _It's real, you're real. I love you and that's real. We're real. Merlin, tell me I'm real, too.'_

Harry hadn't even found out what had happened until day break, with the sun peeking weak and shy through the tent windows. Shamefully, he had been too afraid to ask. But in that weak light, with Neville warm and loving at his back and Ron pressing kisses into his hair, he had felt braver. Watching Ron's face crumple, he had regretted bringing it up. Until Ron had forced the words out.

' _They dosed us. Hermione and Ginny. That love potion, Amortentia. You know the one.'_

' _Amortentia? But wasn't that, wasn't that just for school- how could they-? Ron...'_

 _"They teach it because it's dangerous,"_ Neville's voice, quiet like a ghost, reaching over Harry's shoulder. ' _But Ginny and Hermione,'_ he said, like they were the names of poisons, ' _They couldn't...'_

 _'They did. And they laughed about it until they caught me standing in the doorway.'_

The days after that had been grey. Hateful at times, loving at others. The divorces of war heroes were always front page news but in the face of love potions the crucifixion had not been his and Ron's. They had spent most of media circus traveling, anyway. Seeing the world they had fought and killed to save. The wedding - the wedding had been quick. Beautiful, lovely, but their friends hadn't been there. Couldn't, because of the laws. And then, after...

After, everything had fallen down.

But that wasn't going to happen this time. This time, they were doing things traditionally, with a proper betrothal, following traditional customs. With family and friends at every step of the way. How odd, Harry thought. How terribly, strangely, wonderfully odd.

According to Ron, Mr. Weasley had already given his consent. Augusta Longbottom was taking longer but Neville was optimistic. Apparently, she had replied favourably to his request letter, but wanted to talk the decision over with the rest of the family. Frankly, Harry was prepared to apply all the considerable pressure he had at his disposal to get her agreement. If she wanted to force negotiations with the Boy Who Lived and the media's newest star family, the Weasleys, let her try.

"You have your plotting face on, love," Ron murmured. They were lying in bed, all three of them. In a couple of hours they would all board the Express back to King's Cross, and then on to Malfoy Manor. Christmas was just a few days away.

Lying down together had become a habit. Every free period, every lunch break. They would pick up a snack from the kitchens and crawl into one of their big beds, just for a few minutes of peace. Harry had come to love nothing more, not even his training sessions in the Room of Requirement.

Neville chuckled from behind Harry, "Isn't plotting supposed to be your department, Ron?"

"Oh, no," Ron replied airily. "Common misconception, actually. See, Harry here comes up with a plot and then midway through when everything's all gone to hell he'll turn to me and say, 'Ron, most clever and bewitching love of mine, what ever shall we do?' And I then save the day in a suitably heroic and romantic way. It's all very Gryffindor but it tends to work quite well."

Harry didn't bite back his laughter, allowing it to spill forward and fill the dorm. Beside him, Neville grinned broadly. "Really?" Neville queried, "Then why does it seem that, in fact, most of Harry's plans work pretty well?"

"Yeah," Harry challenged. "What do you have to say for that, Mr. Hero?"

Ron gave a long, beleaguered sigh. "Well, obviously, you, my darling, have the luck of the Devil. Probably won it in a duel, for all I can guess. That, or you pay him with the grey hairs you scare out of me and Neville."

Harry flushed, turning onto his back. "You know I don't mean to, right? And half the time I just wind up in a dangerous situation without me doing anything at all."

Neville hummed, turning to face Harry and Ron on his side. His fingers, chubby still, ran through Harry's longish hair, marvelling at how the black was slowly reclaiming ground from Daphne's green dye. "We do, darling. But that doesn't mean I don't lose my mind a little bit every time. I swear, if I lost either of you, there's nothing that would stop me from doing something dreadful."

Ron twined his fingers with Neville's, setting their hands to rest over Harry's chest. "And us you, Nev. Sometimes I think you're the only sweet bit left of us."

Neville grinned, a sharp and bloody expression. "That's a dangerous thought."

Harry clasped his hand over theirs, binding the three of them in a trifecta. "I wouldn't say so. Some people hold onto much less tangible things." Duty. Anger. Revenge. Harry had reached for each in times of turmoil, on dark nights where Voldemort's musings painted horrors in his mind. He had never slept with those things clutched in his hands. Clutching Neville and Ron's hands, however, almost always managed to pacify his worst thoughts. It was the reaching out that tripped Harry up, more often than he would like to admit. Like the night he had spent in the owlery.

There would be no owlery to hide in at Malfoy Manor. Harry wasn't familiar enough with the layout to be sure he would have any hiding place at all. And yet, he was expected to have one of the most – for lack of a better word, _emotional –_ conversations of his (second) life there, in just a few hours.

Contrary to what many (including Ron) believed, Harry did not enjoy going into a battle without a plan.

"I'm scared Sirius is going to hate me," Harry confessed. His sounded as he had in Umbridge's office, repeating 'I will not tell lies.' Toneless. Resigned.

At his sides, Ron and Neville stiffened. "Why on Earth would you think that?" Neville exclaimed, beating Ron to the punch.

Harry swallowed. Determinedly, he stared at the canopy above his bed, trying to be grateful that everyone was busy at lunch and unable to interrupt the conversation. "We've done awful things," Harry intoned. "What if he can't accept that?"

"Then he's not worth the worry." There was a livid anger in Neville's voice. "We did what we had to. None of it reflects on us."

"We attacked St. Mungo's, Neville," Harry reminded. "I hacked an entire auror unit into pieces and banished the chunks to the Ministry steps."

"Only because they killed our friends and family and burned down our safe houses first!" Neville ground out, his fingers crushing around Harry and Ron's. "You're thinking as though our side was the only side doing awful things. We weren't. We only took blood for what of ours was spilled."

Neville always spoke like a pureblood when he was truly angry. A lot less destructive that Harry's tendency to break things, Ron had pointed out once. Harry was wont to agree.

Sighing, Harry tried to nod, found the angle was awkward to do so, and gave up. "I just don't know if he'll see that."

Neville pressed a gentle kiss to Harry's temple. "It's not our concern to make any of them see anything. We're there to fill in gaps. Whether people who weren't there to make the hard choices can accept them isn't our responsibility."

"We haven't even made those choices, now," Ron cut in. "That future doesn't exist anymore. Couldn't, with how we've already changed things." Ron pressed closer, twining his legs with his lovers', resting his forehead against Harry's. "We did terrible things, but whether or not they were deserved, they don't exist."

"Besides," Neville murmured, his anger spent quickly and swept away. "This is Sirius. No one knows injustice like Sirius. He won't condemn us for fighting back."

"For protecting ourselves," Ron replied.

"Frankly," Neville grinned, "I'm more concerned about what he's going to say about how we got ourselves snuffed out."

Harry chuckled, letting himself relax. "As long as I have you two, I'm sure I could survive even that," he said and let the topic close.

When Dean and Seamus stumbled in some twenty minutes later, they found Ron, Harry, and Neville risen. Their suitcases stood by the door and they appeared ready for the train. With Ron's hand in his left and Neville's in his right, Harry almost felt like that was true.

* * *

 **I'm very sorry about how late this is. I am very busy and very tired. I will aim to be faster. I can't wait to hear from you all! You have been the best readers ever. Your support is the reason why you guys have this chapter. Thanks, guys. Edited as of 8/20/2017.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	15. Guiding Stars

Christmas at Malfoy Manor was... ' _Stunning'_ wasn't a strong enough word. Indescribable, perhaps. Certainly _incomparable_. Even Hogwarts, with her golden glowing candles and tens of glorious trees, appeared gaudy in the face of the Manor. No wonder Draco had never seemed impressed, Harry mused. Anyone who had, unlike Harry, seen the Manor in her full glory might never have been impressed by anything ever again.

Of course, Harry had briefly popped into the Manor throughout the War and the Purges. The place had been an instrumental strategic point during both. Once merely unplottable, a thousand or so years of unrestrained magic had made the Malfoy lands something of a quirk in reality– without an invitation, the wards could not be breached. This made the place a wonderful bolt-hole. The halls had quickly filled with orphaned children, hunted families, and the terribly wounded. Ballrooms had become dormitories, guest suites converted to operating rooms. The ornamental gardens had been uprooted and replaced by vegetables, herbs, and potions ingredients. Many fallen found graves in what was once an abraxan paddock. A miasma of devastation had clung to the walls, itching at Harry's sanity when he had remained too long.

This was so very different from what he had known.

Peaking from the wilds and weeping mists was an abode at least half Hogwarts' size, spectral and fey. Composed of gleaming white marble, the building sprawled out in two great wings, with an imposing tower at each corner. The three storeys rose in lines of decadent windows, the second-floor balcony upheld by seven proud white columns. Just barely, Harry could make out the glitter of the glass ceiling over the ballroom. These details were familiar to Harry, though the gilded gargoyles and statues of famous warriors no longer moved on patrols around the property but instead stood still, waiting. Now, though, wondrous garlands of vibrant green leaves and metallic flowers wound around the columns and balconies, glittering invitingly with crystals of light. Wreaths of traditional protection plants hung at the doors and in windows, decorated with extravagant ribbons and jewels. Inside, the elegant halls and floors were charmed with frosty designs that changed when you looked away. And the trees _,_ oh, Harry thought, _the_ _trees_. Harry had never seen such wonderful trees. All of them bore the lighted crystals and metallic flowers, but that was where the commonalities ended. Some were covered in icicles, others appeared decorated by wisps of cloud, and still more were cloaked in gems. Each was more awe-inspiring and fantastic than the last - absolutely, purely _magical._

Harry took in these fabulous details distantly, mostly when Neville grabbed at his hand and pointed them out. Ron stood at his side with an equally muted smile, a guardian in a boy's body. It was lost on neither of them how difficult the night that was fast approaching would be. Neville, who was of a more optimistic disposition, had taken a 'one way or the other' attitude. Susan, Parvati, Theo, Seamus, Dean, and Oliver all followed Neville in that, openly enjoying the wonderful beauty of Malfoy Manor. Harry and Ron, on the other hand, had spent the train ride and subsequent portkey sharing tense glances with Draco, Lavender, Daphne, Marcus, and Blaise. Percy worried at his lip but would say nothing, while the twins had spent the trip bent into each other like a pair of weeping willows.

Harry grimaced. The secrecy demanded by their time traveling had not just been hard on Harry. Right up to their deaths, the twins had been as brothers with Lee Jordan. There had never been a secret between them. Even as third years, their bond was breathtaking - Lee following the twins into Slytherin without hesitation. However, that camaraderie had become strained within Slytherin House. The twins, unable to lie convincingly to their best friend, had distanced themselves from Lee, afraid of letting something slip. Lee, understandably frustrated at giving up Gryffindor only to be isolated, had grown cold in return. That all of the Slytherin First Year Elite were holidaying at Malfoy Manor with the Weasleys had only set Lee farther apart. There had been a terse exchange of words in the Slytherin common room before the train had loaded. Harry had watched, heart-heavy, as Lee stocked away from the twins to Cassius Warrington's shoulder.

(Interestingly, the pair had immediately split from the rest of Slytherin. Harry, however, had been more concerned with the twins at the time.)

"Harry?" Neville called, leaning out from the ensuite door. Harry pulled himself from his thoughts, happy to distract himself with his future husband. Neville wore a smile and tailored trousers, his ashy tunic unbuttoned still at the throat. He had a brow arched, his sharp brown eyes ticking over Harry's underdressed form with amusement. "I suppose I should have known better than to ask if you were ready to go."

From across the room, Ron chuckled. His own royal blue doublet fit him squarely, cut to draw attention to his height and promising shoulders. With the sooty trousers and tall boots, Harry could nearly see the man he had married. Neville, too, showed hints: the delicate green leaves stitched at the hems of his tunic, the soundless suede boots. All that was missing was Gryffindor's sword at his hip and another decade of years.

Pausing for a moment, Harry gave a little prayer of gratitude to Narcissa Malfoy. The woman had intuition like Merlin had magic. Using information mined from Draco, Narcissa had the Hogwarts returned sharing rooms with their future spouses. Those who had been unmarried were in threes, sharing with friends or family. No one was roomed alone, left to the untender mercies of nightmares and paranoia. Those who, like Harry, Ron, and Neville, hadn't had a chance to purchase suitable clothing had also found chests holding the basics. Or what the Malfoys thought of as ' _basic'._ Harry was certain he had never possessed such fine clothing even after the War. All of the pieces, though, were the sort of style his older self would have worn. Harry felt confident that Draco had also meddled in that. Knowing that any attempt to insist the gift was too much would be seen as an insult by pureblood tradition, Harry had merely made peace with the clothing. Anyway, he was particularly drawn to the selection of training wear, all of it darkly coloured and durable, light-weight and flexible. He veritably ached to don the muggle combat boots stashed almost shamefully at the back of the closet and disappear into the Malfoys' duelling room. However, apparently dinner came before such joys.

And conversation, of course. One must not forget the conversation.

Walking over from his side of the room, Ron wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders, pressing a kiss into his hair. "You'll get wrinkles worrying like that, mate," Ron grinned.

"What, afraid you'll be left with a hag for a spouse?" Harry smirked back, "Besides, you're just as bad as I am."

Ron shrugged, "Guilty." Sitting beside Harry, Ron wound his limbs around Harry's shoulders and pressed a kiss to his neck. "You'd never be a hag to me, though."

"That better count for me, too," Neville called. His tone was arch but his grin betrayed him. He joined Harry and Ron's cuddle pile without hesitation, lounging elegantly across Ron's lap. The line of his throat was bared by his still-undone buttons. He smirked at Ron and Harry's expression.

"It's so strange, isn't it?" Neville mused, "Being too young but knowing exactly what you want."

Ron hummed, tracing a finger along Neville's cheek. "I don't think we've ever counted as young."

"I think I may have," Neville said. He stretched languidly, reaching up to kiss Ron's cheek. "Before the War, at least."

Harry reached for Neville's hand, twining his other with Ron's. Neville's fingers slotted perfectly with Harry's, just as Ron's did. "We were a lot of things before the War. Frankly, I'm more concerned about what we became after."

Neville snorted, eyes bright and teasing. "And that, gentlemen, is why we'll never be Dark Lords. Harry's conscience wouldn't let us."

Harry put on a lofty tone. "I honestly don't think you'd care for it, having been dubbed one myself. Quite a lot of bother, really."

"I don't know," Neville murmured, "The world at my feet, my lovers at my side, my enemies screaming in my dungeon. Sounds fine by me."

Ron snorted. "Let's get one Dark Lord out of the way before we start setting up a new regime, eh, love?"

Neville heaved a put-upon sigh. "If you _insist._ "

"I'm afraid I must," Ron said mildly. He poked at Harry's side, delighting in Harry's surprised snicker. "Now, you need to get dressed or Narcissa will do it herself. Or worse, Draco."

Harry sighed, the last of his laughter dying away. "Fine. But remember, this is under protest."

"Of course, love," Neville replied. "We'll make a note of it in our memoirs."

Harry dressed while his lovers cackled in the background.

* * *

Dinner was lovely, just as everything was ceaselessly lovely at Malfoy Manor. Nothing would dare be anything but, living under Narcissa Malfoy's reign. Even when Sirius had been at his most bitter towards his family, he had known better than to cause chaos at one of Little Cousin Cissa's _soirees_. Though no longer Lucius' wife, she had been adopted as his sister and was still obviously the Lady of the House. Sirius wondered how that would work once Narcissa took up with Kingsley again. Remus, once he married Lucius, would take the title of Lord-Consort, which held the same duties as a lady, but Morgana knew Remus had little patience for society life. Remus could politic with the best of them, having been Dumbledore's werewolf liaison for so long, but wizards and witches were a different kind of opponent. In their last life, they hadn't lived long enough past the War for small details like that to matter.

Taking a sip of wine to hide his sour expression, Sirius swept his eyes around the table. Lucius sat at the head with Remus on his right and Narcissa on his left. Draco sat with his mother and Blaise Zabini. A slew of Hogwarts students that Sirius could barely put names to filled the rest of that side. Amelia Bones sat at the opposite end, with Susan at the left and Rita Skeeter on her right. Kingsley sat beside Skeeter, then Arthur and his gaggle of sons. More people, more _returned_ , filled the spaces between. More than twenty of them, Sirius thought. However, Sirius didn't much care beyond the one who sat at his side: Harry James Potter. His _pup,_ his _godson –_ his _son_ in all the ways that mattered.

The boy – man? Yes, man; Morgana knew physical age meant little these days – could barely meet Sirius' eyes. Not that Sirius blamed him. Sirius had failed him, after all. Not just once, either, but _again and again and again_. How could Sirius expect anything but tolerance? How could he want more? He didn't even deserve what Harry gave him.

The moment James had placed the boy in his arms, Sirius had known that he would love Harry like his own. How could he not? Harry had been so small, a tiny wriggling bundle of peace and happiness. Or, well, maybe not _peace_. The baby had cried for hours after being born, only calming once Sirius had a hold of him. Lily had said that that was the moment she had known she had been right in naming Sirius Harry's godfather.

 _Oh, Lily,_ Sirius thought miserably. _You were so, so wrong._

Sirius was going to be on his second goblet if he kept up this train of thought but he couldn't resist. The thoughts chased themselves around in his head, vicious and damning. Below his skin, Sirius seethed with rage - an immoral, immortal, _black_ thing. It lived in his stomach and set him craving blood. Remus, Lucius, and Cissa had done their best to feed him bits of information as he adjusted from Azkaban and the picture was a painful one. Sirius had thought Harry had been through the worst as a child - apparently, no. And, just as before, Sirius had been worthless in defending him. Again. _Because he'd fucking died_.

Sirius could remember his death. In Azkaban, after _returning_ (as the phenomenon was apparently dubbed among them), he had spent countless hours reliving the event. The future memories blurred the _before_ and the _after, what was_ and _what had been_ and _what wasn't yet._ Sirius' memory had become like a child's story, with no timeline or plot. Yet, the memories themselves were precise – cuttingly so.

 _He lay face-down, body-bound, cursed so by three wands. Had to be three, he knew. He had heard three high voices, felt three points of contact – one left, one right, one behind. No way to duck or dodge, but he hadn't thought he'd need to, anyway. He was in the Burrow, for Merlin's sake. But he wasn't anymore – a portkey? Had to be – he was in a garden, lovingly maintained plants abound – Black Hall? He thought he recognized the stones. Who else used marble tile for garden paths?_

 _Oh, Merlin. Severus was just inside, sleeping, probably with his hands over their unborn child as he had taken to. Sirius had left him there, deciding to answer Molly's emergency patronus himself. He hadn't wanted to put Severus in danger. Oh, the irony shoved a poker in his heart. Sirius couldn't speak, though, couldn't fight. Couldn't warn Severus, 'darling, there's a traitor in your garden!'_

 _Three sets of clicking shoes approached, accompanied by three high voices chittering lightly. There – a flash of red hair? No, couldn't be. The only witch Sirius knew with such hair was Ginny_ Potter, _she couldn't – but there she was, smiling glibly at him as her features shifted, becoming canine – claws tore into Sirius' chest. Body-bound, unable to scream, Sirius watched bits of him be eaten, be torn away, his blood no doubt tainting Severus' lovely herbs and poisons…_

Severus Prince-Black did not die that night. The wards on Black Hall itself were more ancient than those on the property and wiser for the experience. The Lord of the House couldn't deem someone safe; the wards had to judge them so. They had revealed that someone with ill intent had tried to break into the house and that those persons had been deemed trespassers. Thanks to those house wards, Severus and their child had survived to bury Sirius. However, Severus had quietly confessed, neither he nor their child had survived much longer than that.

Severus Snape had never been a vulnerable person. Even as the Marauders tormented him, even as his father beat him. Severus Prince had been even less so - hardened by two magical wars and too much blood. Severus Prince-Black had been so calculated, so _vicious,_ that he had made the whole world bow to the Black name once more. This was a man who saw no line between Light and Dark, who gave and took with a stunning efficiency. A half-blood who had managed to impress the line that banished his mother so much that the dying Lord Prince had made Severus his heir. This was not a man who ever showed pain.

Severus had wept into Sirius' chest for hours that night, only sleeping when exhaustion took him down. Sirius, his heart crushed as fine as icing sugar, had held him tightly, hiding his own grief in Severus' dark hair. The next morning, neither of them could find any words to say. Perhaps if Harry hadn't been attacked that same day they might have but that crisis had taken precedence.

Sirius knew Severus blamed himself for the attack. For choosing _that day_ to visit Sirius, for forgetting about Quirrell's attack in the first place. Severus hadn't said so and likely never would, but Sirius knew. Severus had nearly worked himself to death the week Harry had been unconscious. He had lived in his potions room, concocting such potent remedies that Harry's injuries - which Poppy Pomfrey had sworn would be life-altering, if not fatal - had healed without so much as a scar.

 _'You're not the only one who cares about that boy, Black,'_ Severus had hissed. Sirius had come to coax him out of his lab, himself exhausted after spending the day with goblins and Malfoys, fighting for guardianship of Harry. _'I refuse to be the reason he dies. Now, out!'_

Sirius _also_ knew better than to step in Severus' way. He could shout all he wanted, argue until he ran out of air. He could use every scrap of logic and reasoning he had. All Blacks were educated in the art of debate and Sirius had excelled despite being the type to prefer a duel. Still, such efforts would do no good. Sirius had, of course, fallen in love with the one man who was as stubborn as he was. So, Sirius had put his head down and wrangled a joint-custody agreement between the Black and Malfoy families over Harry, completely blocking Dumbledore out. Severus had worked miracles and healed their boy. Harry had woken up. Sirius and Severus had managed to hold together for that first visit but by the time they had returned to the Manor there hadn't been much left of them. They had collapsed into bed together, exhausted.

' _You've made up for something that wasn't your fault, now,'_ Sirius had murmured, running his fingers through Severus' vale of hair. It was silky between his fingers, free of the oil from potions fumes for the first time in a week. ' _Will you let yourself rest now, Sevy-love?'_

Severus had snorted, his black eyes dulled by sleeplessness and guilt. He had tangled his free hand with Sirius'. ' _When you stop beating yourself for events that will not again transpire, most certainly.'_

 _'...I suppose we'll both be martyrs forever, then,'_ Sirius had replied, unable to meet Severus' knowing gaze.

Severus had hummed, low and tenor and familiar. He had gathered Sirius against his chest, letting Sirius listen to his heartbeat. He could feel the comforting rhythm of Severus' breath, of his pulse. Sirius had been asleep before he had known it.

And now here he was, two weeks later, having a fancy dinner. Or, well, _having consumed_ a fancy dinner. Sirius still found loosing time to be a treasonably easy thing. These phase-outs worried Severus and so Sirius did what he could to keep a lid on them. Regardless, everyone had finished the amazingly sophisticated take on treacle tart set out for dessert. Now, the diners stared awkwardly at each other, unwilling to be the one to rip the bandage off the wound.

Good thing Sirius had never had an inclination for tact.

"So," Sirius grinned, "Do we want to go around the circle and state names and how we died?"

Beside him, Harry choked on his juice. "Sirius!"

Without missing a beat, Severus smacked Sirius sharply upside the head. "I apologize," Severus growled to the table. "He is an oaf."

Across the table, the Weasley Twins grinned wickedly.

"Well, that's not such a bad idea, really," said the twin on the right.

"No, not in the least," the left twin agreed,

"Anyway, I'm sure you know -"

"This is Gred -"

"And he is Forge -"

"And we are Weasleys –"

The twins joined hands, speaking in tandem, "And we went kablooie in Diagon Alley!" They burst apart with an enthusiastic display of jazz hands.

Several people flinched, all adults. Sirius thought that these were the ones who had died around the same time as him. Probably, they had only been aware that the twins had survived the War, as had Sirius. Among that number was Arthur Weasley.

"What?" Arthur gasped. His face was as white as the Malfoys' marble statues. "What the hell do you mean 'kaplooie!?' You were blown up?"

The twins shared a wince. Sirius felt sympathetic. Obviously, the twins hadn't quite thought their little display through. Against his will, Sirius felt a smirk coming on, which he hid with his wine. Severus elbowed him discreetly.

"We were cornered, Dad," the left twin, who Sirius suspected was Fred, said softly.

"We'd have died if we'd been caught, anyway," the other twin, who then must be George, finished. "We might as well have taken them out with us."

"Probably would have died more painfully if we hadn't," Fred said. "Aurors weren't known for their tender mercies."

"Say that again," Lavender Brown chipped in. She was more child-like in appearance than Sirius could ever remember her. However, there was a very adult bitterness to her face. Sirius was reminded of Mad-Eye Moody caustically snapping anecdotes from his many misadventures, expecting his auror trainees to learn something from his scars. With building dread, Sirius and the other adults noticed that all of the children bore such expressions.

"Perhaps," Narcissa cut in primly, "This is not the place for such talks." Rising elegantly, she straightened her dress – an enchanting purple, not unlike the color featured on the Shacklebolt crest, Sirius couldn't _help_ but notice – and gestured to the door. "If you would follow me to the parlour, I can promise rather more appropriate comforts."

Without a pause, the Slytherins and purebloods rose to follow Narcissa. One simply did not turn down an invitation from the Lady of the House; such was to be terribly rude. Sirius turned to explain this to the kids, who were mostly half-blood or Light-raised, only to find them striding after Narcissa.

 _Right_ , Sirius thought as Harry fell into step with Draco Malfoy. They had all made it into Slytherin. Still, such fine details couldn't have been learned so quickly…

"It is a brave new world, I am afraid," Severus murmured, quietly slipping his hand into Sirius'.

Sirius glanced at their hands, both pale, Severus' bearing callouses from various potions-related tasks. Both were in need of rings, in Sirius' opinion. In their last life, they had gone with simple golden bands, leery of anything that cut too close to the Dark pasts of the Prince and Black families. Now, though, as Arthur Weasley laughed with Lucius Malfoy and Fenrir Greyback spoke quietly with Amelia Bones, the world was quite different.

"Maybe we could all use a little more bravery," Sirius murmured back. He smiled at Severus' surprise and squeezed his hand once more before letting Severus go.

 _Time to put my money where my mouth is_ , Sirius thought, and wrapped an arm around his godson.

* * *

Harry started as a firm weight settled across his shoulders. Immediately, he knew it was Sirius, the warm leather tipping him off. His stomach went into knots. He hadn't been able to look Sirius in the eye since coming to the Manor. With his injuries healed, with Sirius safe, the guilt Harry felt was insurmountable. He had barely managed dinner without running away.

That wasn't an option with Sirius' arm around him.

"Sirius?" Harry managed, looking up at his godfather. The man looked younger than Harry could remember, without the War and an additional three years in Azkaban weighing on him. No doubt Narcissa and Severus had forced a healing regiment on him, too. However, there was a desolation in Sirius' eyes that hadn't been there before. Harry's heart jumped into his throat, his mind full of funerals and blood and the tiny little girl no one had ever had the chance to meet.

"Harry," Sirius said. His fingers tightened on Harry's shoulder. "I just, before we get into this, I just want you to know – Merlin, I am so sorry."

Distantly, Harry noticed that the rest of the returned had shuffled away into the parlor. Narcissa stood at the door for a moment, her face impassive, and then the door clicked softly shut behind her. This talk had her blessing, obviously, and so they would not be disturbed. Yet, this had little impact on Harry.

"You're sorry?" Harry repeated, uncomprehending.

Sirius just nodded, fast and emphatic. "I am, Merlin, I am. And I understand if you, if you hate me, or –"

"Hate you?" Harry gaped.

"For everything I've done," Sirius said. "For not being there, for leaving you alone in this mess. Merlin, I never meant to but I always did. You didn't deserve this, none of this, and I should have protected you better –"

Harry threw himself at Sirius, his eleven-year-old arms catching the man around the middle. Sirius staggered, surprised, but tentatively he returned the hug.

"Hate you?" Harry asked again, stunned, his face buried in Sirius' chest. "How did you ever think I could hate you? Sirius, I _mourned_ you. I didn't blame you. Not for anything!"

Sirius' hold tightened, his fingers winding in Harry's hair. His voice was strangled. "You should have. Dammit, Harry. You wouldn't be wrong to. I failed you. I _failed_ you."

"No!" Harry snapped, looking up. "You were there for me more than any other adult in my life. You did as much as you could, you… you gave me family again." Harry said, his voice soft. "How could I ever hate you? How did you think I could ever _hate_ my family? Please, Sirius. Don't ever think that." Harry's face was a mask of horror.

Sirius sighed; a long, slow exhale. "I'm sorry, Harry. I just – well, never mind," Sirius halted, wincing. This shouldn't be about his problems. Not when Harry was still obviously upset by something, though not Sirius, which Sirius didn't think would ever fully set in for him. Not when Harry would be so justified in hating him.

Giving a mental shake, Sirius tucked that away to agonize over some other time. Reconsidering his words, Sirius tried again from a different angle _._ "Harry, you can barely look at me, pup. I didn't need to be all-there to know _something_ was wrong." Sirius eyed Harry. His slate gaze made Harry feel open – exposed. "I think I just assumed the wrong thing," Sirius said. He gently titled Harry's face up. "What's wrong, pup?"

 _What's wrong?_ Harry felt hysteria bubble up in his stomach. What's _wrong? Harry_ was wrong, that was what. He was twisted and broken and burned up inside, blood-slick and bleeding and _bad_. He had done bad things, killed or maimed a hundred or more. He had made competent killers out of children and teenagers. He had set fire and curse and weapon against anyone who stumbled in his way. Worst of all, when he thought on it, Harry didn't even regret it. Not if doing what he had done meant his people lived.

Suddenly, Harry thought he understood the Dark very well indeed.

"I changed after you died, Sirius," Harry said at last. "The whole world changed. It wasn't just Ginny and Molly and Hermione hurting us; it was the Ministry, normal people, the whole of the Light." Harry took a strangled breath, realising vaguely that his face was wet. He had started crying, at some point. "They were picking us off. You, Sev, Lucius – that was just the start. Soon, hunting werewolves was legal. Remus and Teddy were _hung_. We were powerless to stop the Ministry. And then, vampires, veela, goblins, giants, half-breeds – they were all fair game. Most of us who lived, we were all labeled Dark. We were hunted."

Sirius ran a soothing hand over Harry's back, hushing him gently. Harry was tangentially aware he was choking on his words, having lost any hint of composure. He couldn't bring himself to mind. Sirius was looking at him calmly, without a hint of judgement or rebuke. Harry felt as though he were looking into the Mirror of Erised.

"So you fought back," Sirius murmured. "You protected yourselves. There's nothing wrong with that."

"We did more than fight back, Sirius!" Harry cried. "We took _revenge._ For every auror unit sent after us, we sent them back in pieces. _I_ sent them back in pieces." Harry fought for a breath, centering himself on Sirius' even caresses. "They called me a Dark Lord. We used to laugh about it, mock the propaganda machine, all that. But now… I don't think they were wrong."

Sirius' hands stilled for a moment and Harry felt himself freeze. Was this it? The point of what Sirius could accept? Sure, he had laughed along in the Medical Wing when Harry had mentioned the title, but that had been in a very different context. Harry had laughed it off, too. Harry wasn't laughing now. He was accepting it.

"Do you remember how I told you that there was Light and Dark in all of us, and that we were the choices we made?" Sirius asked after a moment of silence.

"Yes," Harry replied.

"My Mother was the one who told me that."

"What?"

Sirius hummed. "Yup. Despite being homicidal and definitely psychotic, dear Mummy was a wealth of lines like that. Of course, in her world the Light represent weakness and stupidity, but the moral stands. We are the choices we make." Sirius inhaled deeply, as though he needed the time to find the right words. "Still, the right choice isn't always the easy one."

Harry's stomach bottomed out. Here it came. The condemnation he knew was waiting for him.

"Sometimes, the right choice is the one that leaves your hands bloody."

Harry's world froze, becoming still and delicate. "I'm sorry," Harry said after a beat, "I don't quite follow."

Sirius laughed – but not his usual grinning chuckle. This was a sharper, deadlier thing; _Black_ in nature. "We are our choices. But our circumstances, our priorities, those dictate our choices, Harry. You were set up, pup, from cradle to grave. The Light cultured this loyalty in you, this protective compulsion. It was useful for them, in the War. But then they hunted you down, and worse, they hunted down your friends. You went rabid in return." Sirius grinned, "No one blames a beaten dog for biting back."

Harry felt numb. "But Mum and Dad, and you and Rem, you were all Light – "

"Yes. But, we fought a tyrannical megalomaniac set on taking over the world," Sirius said. "We weren't saints, Harry. We did the best we could with the choices we had. Gods know we didn't mourn the Death Eaters we cut up into little bits – not after they slaughtered the McKinnons and broke Frank and Alice. The difference, as far as I'm concerned, is that our cutting had media approval, and yours didn't."

Harry didn't know how to feel. He was pins and needles, emotionally. In the end, he flopped fully against Sirius' chest, using his tiny eleven-year-old frame to his advantage.

"You can't be serious," Harry said, at last, unthinkingly, when the quiet stretched longer than he could bare. And then what he said sunk in with a kind of stunned disbelief.

"Actually," Sirius crowed brightly, "I most definitely _can_ be Sirius! I have the papers to prove it, swear to Merlin, just ask Mooney – "

And Harry, confused and sad and unbelievably happy, gave into such a hysterical cackle that Narcissa Malfoy herself came blustering out of the parlor to find out what the _hell_ was going on in her hallway.

Behind him, Harry wrapped protectively in his arms, Sirius Black grinned contently.

* * *

 **Hello, all! How did you like this one? I really hope you did, seeing as this was unexpectedly hard to write. Also, this chapter is entirely from scratch, as nothing from the old story really fit, so I feel like I'm writing without training wheels for the first time! Please tell me how you like it!** **As always, I look forward eagerly to hearing what you think! Your reviews are really what keep me writing! Speaking of which, off I go to go reply to last chapter's lovely reviews! Thank you so much for your support! Edited as of 8/20/2017.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	16. Memories

Ron was worried. Neville liked to say that Ron lived in a constant state of worry and Ron could admit that Neville wasn't exactly wrong. However, Ron felt that was less a fault of his and more the fault of the bat-shit insanity he regularly experienced. So, when Harry's hysterical laughter reached him through the Malfoys' drawing room walls, Ron didn't feel the slightest bit guilty for palming his wand.

Neville closed his hand over Ron's before he could draw. He glanced pointedly to Narcissa. Right, Ron thought. Very rude, possibly terminal idea, drawing a wand in a Lady's domain. Lady Adamanta Goyle, Gregory Goyle's most _breath-taking_ mother, had cursed Ron flat on his back the last time he drew in her presence. _'Act of aggression,'_ she had said sweetly. Ron just thought that Dark purebloods were all fucking nuts.

Ron didn't expect Narcissa was quite so particular, but better safe than Leg-Locked. "Nar- ah, Mrs., ah, _Lady_ Black-Malfoy?"

Narcissa hummed from where she was serving out the warm mulled wine, coffee, and hot chocolate brought in by the house elves. The drinks were probably all laced neatly with a calming draught; Ron wouldn't put it past her. The ladies of Dark families were notorious for going to any length to keep their guests calm and content. Narcissa passed the last cup to Amelia Bones before straightening with a sigh.

"Not to worry, young Lord Prewett-Weasley," she drawled primly. "I will go see what my _dear_ cousin has done now. Oh," Narcissa paused by the door, "Please, within the Manor I believe it would not be inappropriate to go by familiar names, Ron."

Ron flushed. Even after years of fighting by her side, both as an equal and as a superior, Narcissa still had the ability to make Ron feel like child. He was fairly sure she had that effect on everyone, though, so he didn't feel too badly. "Of course, Narcissa."

She nodded once and then glided out of the room. About five minutes went by, wherein no one said anything and Ron's father kept a stranglehold on Ron's 'free' hand, before Narcissa returned with Harry and Sirius in tow. Ron felt his heart break. Harry's face, already pale, was translucent and blotchy, his eyes watery behind his frames. Sirius had a hand on Harry's shoulder that didn't look keen to leave anytime soon, his face grim.

Harry didn't even glance at Ron and Neville, who were ensconced by Weasleys on every side. Instead, the pair settled on the center couch, in a space that had magically appeared between Remus and Severus. The Malfoys held the rest of the couch, Draco between his parents, trying very hard to keep the raw pain off his face every time he looked at them. Remus, who resembled Teddy in sepia, Draco could not even glance at.

There were many looks going - and pointedly not going – around the room. Kingsley Shacklebolt cast furtive, anxious glances at Narcissa, who had eyes for no one but her son. Blaise stared into the distance, alone in a wingback at the end of the Malfoys' couch. Daphne held court on a second couch, the young returned gathered around her. Susan was the odd first year out, tucked against Amelia's side in a love seat. Rita Skeeter had claimed the other wingback. Ron's family traded looks on a third couch, short and sharp and communicative, while Sirius, Severus, and Remus held a silent conversation over Harry's head. Harry, who at long last met Ron's eye and gave a bland little smile.

Neville and Ron traded frowns, comforted exactly zero percent by Harry's expression. Ron's instinct was to stand up and go to Harry but there was a deceptive peace in the room that Narcissa did not seem to want broken. As the Lady of the House, it was for her that Malfoy Manor's drawing room had adjusted itself to seat twenty-eight. Probably the Manor would not enjoy someone working against her wishes. Old manors were bitchy like that, Ron had found. Possessive - defensive, even. Just like their ladies. But, still...

"So," Fenrir barked, jarring Ron from his deliberations. "We were going to talk at some point, yeah?"

Narcissa took a measured sip of tea. "Why, yes, Alpha Greyback, thank you for the reminder. Would you care to lead the proceedings?"

Fenrir settled back against the loveseat he shared with Bill, his huge frame rippling under his leather trench. He was pointedly ignoring Bill's annoyed glare. "Wasn't my intention. I wouldn't know what's what anyway. Apologies, Lady."

Narcissa's eyes narrowed. "What, pray tell, might you mean you mean by that? You died later than most, did you not?"

Fenrir snorted. Bill stiffened. Fenrir's arm curled possessively around Bill's shoulder. "Not quite. Being bonded to Bill's all that's filled me in."

A round of shuffling went through the room, people exchanging glances and whispers. This was the first non-returned anyone had filled in, not that Bill had really had much of a choice. Neville frowned. "I don't understand. You were a huge part of the Resistance. Why wouldn't you have been brought back?"

"He's not the only one, though, is he?" Ron said. "Umbrige doesn't seem to be back. Neither is Stan Shunpike, Andromeda Black, any of our magical creature contacts, or any of our international allies."

"Lee's out, too," the twins added in droopy synchronization.

"Terry," Susan murmured.

Lavender sighed. "Dennis."

"So is Warrington, Millicent, and our other Society contacts, for that matter," Draco mused.

"So, what, you had to be Light or Grey to return?" Amelia Bones asked.

Sirius barked a laugh. "Wouldn't say so, Minister," he replied, gesturing vaguely to the people of his couch. Severus glowered. Narcissa smiled charmingly, her dark eyes glinting. Lucius looked on benignly. Several of the first years smirked or chuckled - the twins _winked_.

Amelia pursed her lips. "Well, that's out, then."

Sirius settled back, smug, "I'd say so. Probably not the most important thing to be worried about, anyway. A better question is what the fuck do we do now?"

"Language, Black," Amelia hissed. Her eyes skittered to the first years, among them the nine-year-old Astoria and ten-year-old Luna. "Not everyone is as crude as you."

Dean Thomas grinned. "You'd be surprised."

Sirius, in a great show of maturity, stuck his tongue out at her. "Whatever you say, your most honourable Ministerial-ness." Amelia glared, which Sirius balked at. The whole meeting might have fallen apart there, Ron would later reflect, if Kingsley hadn't taken the opportunity to raise the next point of contention.

"Should our next action not be to vanquish Voldemort?" Kingsley said, his voice layered with the sure authority of a future Minster. "After all, we have all the pieces together rather ahead of schedule."

Amelia smiled. "Thank you, Kingsley. As you say, we are much more prepared to deal with Voldemort. We end him now, there will be no need for the death and trauma so many experienced."

The other adults made agreeing sounds. However, Ron didn't miss the look shared between Lucius, Narcissa, and Severus. Mostly because he, Harry, and Neville had shared one earlier. Like Kingsley said, they had all the pieces to bring down Voldemort some six-and-change years in advance of the original timeline. They could deal with him, theoretically, whenever they liked. Yet, in order for Harry to properly off the bugger, wouldn't they need to recreate that final dual? Old Tommy needed a body for that. Maybe taking out the Horcruxes early would even be _detrimental_ to killing him. There was, however, a whole other Big Bad Bag of Dicks that they had no plan for dealing with -

"Who cares about _Voldemort_?" Parvati growled from the first years' couch. "Old news, him."

"I have to agree," Daphne concurred, cold and poised. In her lap, Astoria glared like a terribly pretty, decidedly _very_ cursed doll. "There are other dangers to contend with."

"The ladies are right," Seamus nodded. "Granger's gone, but the _others_ -"

"Padma," Parvati sneered.

"Zacharias Smith," Luna sighed. The man had turned her and Theo in.

"Molly _No-Name_ ," Neville emphasized, cruelly pleased.

"Guinevere _No-Name,"_ Ron smirked back.

Harry closed his eyes. "Dumbledore."

"The whole damn gutless _Ministry_ ," Rita snarled from her wingback. She cast a glance at Amelia, who appeared taken aback by the venom in her voice. Rita dredged up a weak smile. "Current company excluded, of course."

Amelia nodded once, shortly. "Yes, well. It would seem that I am obviously missing a few pieces," she glanced around the room, taking in Arthur Weasley's wide eyes and the uneasy expressions of the other adults. "Would someone care to fill us early deaths in?" She slipped an arm around Susan. "I, for one, would like to have the full picture of the peace years once Voldemort died. I have been assuming that the radicals that cause my death and many others were put down? I would also like to know more about this ' _Resistance_ ' Alpha Greyback was apparently such a large part of. And what was that about Miss Granger?"

The young returned exchanged glances. Of course some adults would still think their deaths were caused by nameless evil. Susan had thought the same until Daphne had explained it to her on the train. They wouldn't know the urgency they really should feel. They wouldn't understand why the young returned had already orchestrated what they had.

"Afterwards," Amelia carried on, "We can decide where our rage should focus."

"We haven't had much time to speak about those years ourselves," Susan put in carefully. She arched a brow at Draco and Ron, who both looked to Harry. They found him nodding to himself.

"Right," Harry said, as though affirming something to himself. "Lucius, you have a pensieve, don't you?"

"Harry -" Neville jumped in, arm over Ron's lap to keep him from getting up.

"Mate," Ron tried instead but Harry cut them both off.

"It's all too convoluted to try and explain. Better just to show," Harry said. "Theo, you could cast that charm you came up with for recon meetings?" Theo nodded. "Good."

"The rest of us should contribute memories, too," Daphne said. "We all experienced different aspects."

"Right," Lavender said. "I can think of some choice ones."

The room broke out in a quiet rumble as the young returned rose to their feet, discussing who would contribute what. Draco, silent as a ghost, stood and began transfiguring flowers from the tasteful floral arrangements around the room into vials to store the memories in. The rest of the room quickly broke into conversation.

"Draco," Lucius started, striding after his son, Narcissa half a step behind him. "Is this really all necessary?"

Draco nodded, not able to meet his parents' eyes. "Yes. Yes, it is."

Narcissa put a hand on Draco's shoulder, firmly, and turned Draco so he faced them. Draco was rigid under her fingers, his face stoic, but his eyes - Lucius felt gutted. Lucius had put his family through many messes in his life. Yet, even those actions and the resulting wars had not left Draco looking as broken as he did now.

"Oh, darling..." Narcissa murmured, gently cupping their son's hardened face.

Draco took a breath and looked away. "I survived both of you," Draco said at length. "Remus and Teddy, too. I lived for just short of three years more. Yet, nothing ever became better than the day I discovered you were gone. Not even my wedding. Every time I looked away from my husband all I could see where the faces that weren't there," Draco murmured. He looked up, "We can't put into words why the modern threat is worse than Voldemort. But we can show you."

Lucius swallowed. In his last life he had so, _so_ desperately wanted to believe that their problems had died with Voldemort and the travesty he had made of Marvolo Riddle. Obviously, that had been wrong of him. Lucius wasn't in the habit of making the same mistake twice. Not anymore.

"Of course," Lucius said. "I shall retrieve the pensieve."

Draco gave him a relived smile. "Thank you, Father."

Lucius left, a pool of dread welling in his stomach.

The first memories were actually given by Rita. Simply put, this was because while Harry was sobbing for his dead godfather and Daphne was fending off suitors and Luna and Theo were abroad, Rita had been growing suspicious. Suspicious of the burnings, of which she provided smoke-choked memories of aurors holding back Mr. Borgin while his entire inventory was set aflame, Mr. Burke stunned beside him. Suspicious of the seized pureblood manors, viewed through beetle eyes as the wealthy homes were ransacked for anything valuable. Suspicious of the riots whipped up in the streets of Diagon Alley, protesters toting homemade signs protesting the 'lax' treatment of Death Eaters. The current riot memory had taken place after Elissandra Selwyn was found innocent - she had been just thirteen years old.

"This was just some of the early stuff," Rita explained solemnly. "May, 1998 stuff. It got worse later on." The other returned stood around her, Theo's amplification spell allowing them all to view the memories through the one pensieve. Grim, pale expressions set each face.

"I remember," Kingsley said tiredly. Events like these had tinged his entire short-lived career as Minister.

"I don't," Sirius scoffed, eyes wide. "Fuck."

Severus grimaced. "Indeed."

"They started after you died," Harry offered sombrely. "The first one was just after your funeral."

"If I remember correctly," Luna offered dreamily, "Elissandra died not too long after this march."

"Dark rebels, upset with her for turning Light," Amelia replied. "One of my own apprentices investigated."

Draco snorted. "The Selwyns have always been Dark – Elissandra was, too. Wouldn't surprise me if one of these protesters took things too far, though."

Amelia glared. "I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, that wasn't the case. I would have known."

Draco sneered. "They said Dark rebels killed Parvati, too. What do you say about that?"

"You weren't?" Kingsley asked Parvati, taken aback.

"Of course not," Parvati replied, surprised. "Damnit, man, they fucking _hung_ you. Why would you think anything the Ministry said was legit?" Kingsley's face went stony.

"If I may," Narcissa cut in, just as the air began to tense. "Many of us here died very quickly, with what seemed like little warning. Unless we identified our attacker -"

Sirius snarled.

"- it is reasonable that we drew our assumptions from prior conditions," she said levelly. "I, personally, only grew suspicious of the Light after the attack in London. By then, it was too late."

"Merlin," Arthur breathed heavily. "You mean the Ministry was somehow behind all this?"

"Yes," Daphne confirmed. "Here, I managed to put it all together after Cormac, my fiancé, died." Uncorking the vial in her hand, she released the memory, which unfurled like smoke until, gradually, the Diagon Alley riot shifted into Daphne's old room at Greengrass Manor. The lens of the memory was focused on one wall, framed by furniture that had been haphazardly flung out of the way. Photographs and clippings from magazines and newspapers plastered the surface, coloured lines of magic connecting the papers. It took a moment but, with the help of some carelessly scratched notes, a pattern emerged.

Arthur Weasley stumbled forward, his mouth open in dismay. "My word... Some of these trails go back to the first War."

"And some are even older," Daphne murmured. "I tracked one odd line of happenstances all the way back to 1944. If that one Lord hadn't died just then, childless, it's doubtful Dumbledore ever would have had a seat on the Wizengamot in the first place."

"How could we have missed all this?" Amelia asked, more of herself than anyone else.

Ron shrugged. "The old man seemed harmless, always toting that for the 'Greater Good' nonsense. Plus, he was the Savior for a while there, too, wasn't he? Nobody wanted to think any bad of him."

"At least, none of the Light did," Severus drawled. "When Riddle began to make political noises, the Dark and Grey's disenchantment became very clear."

"Of course, that many people trusted Riddle helped," Narcissa added. "He always had a place at every prominent table come the solstices, and at weddings, birthdays, seasonal balls, cotillions, even funerals." Narcissa paused, "He was a pallbearer at Abraxas'."

Lucius nodded slowly, "They were old friends. After my sire died, Riddle helped pull my father out of his depression. I know not when that changed."

"It was like someone rewrote him," Severus agreed from where he had moved closer to the wall, peering at a particular set of articles.

The young returned exchanged glances. Here was a line of inquiry that would need to be followed up on before June rolled around. What exactly had driven Tom Marvolo Riddle - an all-around stand-up guy, apparently - to become the insane monster they had known and feared? Dark magic seemed the primary suspect, but that looked like a biased answer, now. Harry had more than dabbled and so had many others. Yet, none of them had felt like generally being horrible. What where they missing? Now that they had the luxury of time, it seemed irresponsible not to find out.

In the memory, the bedroom door opened with a snap. Several people jumped, spinning around to see a young woman step through.

"Ooh, goodie!" Sirius grinned, "Someone we know!"

Severus shushed him with an elbow to the ribs.

"Hurry," memory-Daphne snapped - apparently to the empty room. She was nineteen, beautiful, and obviously exhausted. She was dressed in a nightgown. Smudges of uncared for eye makeup made her look ghostly. The door clicked closed. "You can let down the charms now."

Without comment, Neville and Ron both appeared, their Notice-Me-Nots cancelled. Harry's head popped out, too, uncovered by his cloak, which he took off and flipped over his arm as a curtesy. He was draped in Sirius' leather jacket. The boys were as old as Daphne and just as tired-looking. They were clad like they had just stepped off Diagon Alley but were in the condition of fighters fresh from the front: bare-miss offensive spells had left burns on their clothes and skin and Neville was splattered with blood. He clutched Gryffindor's sword in one hand, the blade wetly matching with the ruby-studded hilt.

"What happened?" Sirius growled.

"The Ministry," Harry replied. He took his godfather's hand.

"Thank you for letting us in," memory-Harry said. There was a blood fleck on his glasses that he distractedly rubbed away.

"I don't know why I did," Daphne replied. She transfigured some random furniture into four chairs and sat herself in one. The boys followed her example. "Why did you even come here?"

The boys exchanged a glance. "Luna sent us," Harry said. "She said you could explain what was going on." His eyes flickered to the clipping wall behind her.

Daphne nervously straightened her nightgown. "Well, I suppose she was right about that. I bet she thought this was a better place to hide you, too. No one would ever think you would come here." She wore a bitter, knowing smile.

"The Ministry took us captive," Harry replied bluntly. "We port-keyed here from the Tropics, but instead of Longbottom Hall we landed in a holding cell. The Aurors wouldn't say anything except for some rot about illegal magic."

"We thought they were Imperio'd for a bit, or Dark rebels in disguise, but then they took Ron for questioning," Neville added.

Ron, who on closer inspection bore obvious signs of some quick, half-assed healing, grinned at Daphne. His teeth were pink with blood. "Suffice to say, they weren't using any techniques I was familiar with. We fought our way out the minute the room stopped spinning on me."

Neville and Harry each took a hand of his at that, their wedding rings glinting in the low light.

Daphne nodded. She waved her wand again and four glasses and a bottle of Firewhiskey appeared. She poured generously to a round of thanks. "Standard procedure," she explained after a long drink. "Chances are they may not have even planned on letting you out. No one has seen Pansy Parkinson since she went to inquire about her husband." Daphne poured herself another and downed it. "They're probably both dead."

"What the fuck is this?" Ron hissed. "The Ministry's gone fucking mental. How is Kingsley letting this happen?"

Daphne shook her head. "Shacklebolt's on charges himself, locked up on house arrest for a whole slew of nonsense." Daphne was on her third glass before she said, "I'm afraid you lot have stumbled into a very different world from what you left." She laughed lightly, "A whole different war, even."

"We have to do something," Harry said. "We have to fix this. Daphne, you have all this evidence -"

"I have FUCK ALL, Potter," Daphne snarled suddenly, getting to her feet. "I have been reliably informed by fucking everyone that all I have here is a one-way trip to St. Mungo's." She gave Harry a nasty, crazy little smirk. "I've been a touch unhinged since my finance died, according to _the Prophet_. No one would blame me for losing my mind."

Neville leant forward, his expression soft. "I'm so sorry, Daphne."

Daphne settled again, apparently mollified. "Yes, well. I couldn't risk it, anyway. I can't have them targeting Astoria."

Neville frowned, "Would they?"

Daphne smiled grimly. "Rumour has it the reason they were so brutal on the Malfoys is because they thought it would get them Draco. And anyone with a brain knows they only bothered Lovegood's father to get to Theo Nott. They want the influential families gone or shut up, one way or the other."

Harry's face was pale as death. "What do you mean about the Malfoys? Daphne, please, we haven't heard anything since we left England, what -"

There was an ear-splitting noise from deeper within the Manor, a sound like ripping metal amplified by a stadium-sized sonorous. Alarms began to blare, the room flashing red. Daphne leapt to her feet with an expression of raw fear on her face.

"Someone's forced down the wards," she said, blasting the door open with her wand, not pausing to unlock it. The boys were hot on her heels. "It's them, the Ministry, they must have been tracking you - Astoria!"

The seventeen-year-old was a brunette version of Daphne, gripping her wand and walking dazedly out of her room. She had obviously been asleep. "Daph? What's going on?"

Daphne reached for her. "We have to go, come quickly-"

Another shrieking boom and a squadron of black-clad attackers apperated into the hallway, separating the sisters. "By order of the Ministry of Magic, we hereby-"

"-Need to shut the fuck up," Daphne hissed. The attacker raised their wand but Daphne blasted them. Immediately, a battle broke out.

"What's the plan?" Neville called, deflecting a spell with his sword. The blade glowed briefly, gaining power from the spell. Neville swung on.

"Get my sister, get out of here," Daphne snarled. She sent another attacker spinning with a Gut-Wrencher Hex. The person fell to the floor, spitting up their own entrails.

Astoria's high scream broke through the chaos, Daphne twisting just in time to watch her sister fall to the floor. "Fuck it," Daphne snarled. "Avada Kedavra!" The caster dropped dead, but Astoria didn't get up.

Ron loped ahead of Daphne, easily plucking up Astoria while Daphne provided cover. He clasped Daphne's wrist. "I'll side-long you. They'll know the Greengrass safe houses -"

"Your favourite chocolate place!" Neville shouted. Harry nodded and in a second all five of them were gone.

 _"_ Our parents died that night," Daphne explained as the memory faded out. "They may have been killed by the hit-wizards or maybe they were taken for questioning. Their obituaries were in _the Prophet_ the next day."

"Harry, Ron, and I were blamed for the attack," Neville said. " _The Prophet_ claimed we were trying to convert the Greengrasses to our Dark cause. The girls we apparently Imperio'd."

"That was the first time they started calling us Dark Lords," Harry said.

"Astoria nearly died," Daphne murmured, still somewhere in the memory. Parvati had inched towards her, standing close in solidarity. Astoria had her head buried in her sister's shoulder.

The adults stood stock-still, shocked and horrified. Objectively, the level of violence was familiar from the Voldemort Wars. Yet, knowing the _Ministry_ was behind the terror made the memory much worse. This was a more sinister, subtler terror than Voldemort had ever been.

"I believe I understand where you are coming from," Amelia murmured, eyes distant. She shook herself and appeared more settled. "I would, however, like to still see any other memories anyone is willing to share." The other adults nodded, though their faces were pinched with pain.

Ron blew a breath between his teeth. "It's good for everyone to have a full picture, yeah. Greengrass Manor was really just the start."

Harry swallowed and nodded, "I was one of the last to die, so I'll go last with that memory. Does anyone else have something they feel would be helpful to show before that?"

The room was quiet, until at last someone raised their hand.

* * *

 **Hey there, everyone!** **Wow, is that an update? Strange, rare creatures, those. Anyway, thank you so much for your support! Your reviews are the reason I keep writing! Also, today's chapter is edited by the wonderful Ren01r!**

 **Now, on the the important stuff. As you can see, I've left a bit of a cliff hanger there for you. I'd like to show a few more memories in the next chapter, but I want to know what YOU guys would like to see. So, please in your review (which I really hope you leave!), I'd like you to tell me which character you'd like to see a memory from! For the sake of brevity, try and keep it to the young returned, but feel free to pick any of them.**

 **Anyway, thank you for your support! I hope to here from you soon! As always, I do my absolute best to reply to every review I recieve!**

 **Edited 8/20/2017**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	17. Obscured

Luna smiled benignly at the room. She seemed to radiate a sort of peace and contentment that was absent from anyone else. Beside her, Theodore Nott stood like a grim sentry, his fingers laced with hers. They hadn't parted hands since entering Malfoy Manor.

When she went to upturn her vial, though, her hand stilled. A strange expression flickered across her face.

"Are you sure, Luna?" Harry asked, a frown pulling at his mouth. Luna and Theo had been on the front lines, but in a very different way than Harry and his fighters. Their reports had always been gruesome - Harry was certain their memories were much worse.

Luna blinked and the moment passed. Theo wrapped his arm around her waist, murmured something too low to overhear, and she nodded.

"Yes," she said, "Yes, I think this is rather important." She looked directly at the adults. "When things began to go bad, Theo and I complied with the new rules. Quickly, that option disappeared," Luna explained. She upturned the vial.

The memory spilled forward in a gust of smoke, quickly solidifying into the familiar confines of the Lovegood family room. There were, however, aspects that were unfamiliar to those who had died early. The place looked brighter, neater. The books were organized and shelved, the windows gleaming and clear, and the walls looked to have been repainted, the wooden beams re-stained; even the furniture looked somehow perkier.

Luna smiled at the various looks of surprise. "Theo is something of a handyman," she explained, prideful. Beside her, Theo's lips quirked slightly.

"Right," Sirius said, looking around slowly. "You two married, didn't you?"

Luna's eyes saddened. "A bit after you died, yes."

Sirius grinned, a touch manic. "Well. Belated congratulations, then."

Severus, however, was frowning. "Did you not then go abroad? Africa, I thought. If so..."

Luna's whole face seemed to dim, while Theo merely grew stonier. When Luna remained silent, Theo inclined his head. "That was the plan."

Amelia Bones opened her mouth but Lucius' sigh cut her off. Tiredly, he rubbed a hand over his face. "The Reformation Regulations passed, didn't they? They called you back."

Amelia frowned. "The what?"

Lucius all but scowled. "The Reformation Regulations. A pernicious, unnecessary, invasive bit of legislation the Light lords were trying to muscle through after the War. I was just leaving yet another session devoted to their debate when, well." Lucius cleared his throat, "When I was assassinated."

Remus went pale at the reminder. Wordlessly, he reached out for Lucius, who accepted Remus' arm around his waist with absent ease. Narcissa merely swallowed, her eyes closing for longer than the standard blink. Draco gave no appearance that he had heard, though Blaise took his hand all the same. Severus pursed his lips briefly, looking away, with Sirius' hand on his arm.

The others gave the extended Malfoy family moment before Amelia cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, but what precisely did they entail?"

"All British witches and wizards were unable to leave Britain without express permission," Theo replied. "Those abroad had to return or sacrifice our citizenship. Those identified as non-combatant Dark had everything taken from them for the good of restoration. We were left entirely destitute. Our right to magic was restricted. We were outlawed from government and most other white collar jobs." Theo swallowed, but his voice remained remarkably steady. "I was fortunate, having married Luna, been a DA member, and fought for the Light in the war. Being disowned probably helped, too. But I was still branded an ND and had to comply. Hell, they basically used me as their poster boy," Theo growled, showing the first bit of anger anyone could remember seeing from him since returning. Luna turned into him and whispered something, which seemed to soothe him.

Lucius nodded. "They were terrible, punitive things. I had been fighting them since the very end of the War. However, the public mood was so corrosive I feared drawing attention to them."

Theo smiled grimly. "You were probably right to fear. Had they gone to a public vote, they probably would have just hung us all."

Amelia flinched. "Surely..."

Whatever she was going to say, the memory intruded before she could finish. There was a scuffling sound from the floor above, a door slammed, muffled voices hissed back and forth, and then a woman's voice: "Theo!"

Percy frowned. "Is this...?"

Luna hummed. "I thought you wouldn't mind."

Percy nodded, yet there was pain in every line of his expression.

"Percy?" Arthur asked but the door at the top of the stairs snapped open with a bang, drawing all attention. An older Luna with her hair swept up and clad in a long tie dye dress came rushing down the stairs. Behind her was a pair of staggering people, slumped over each other - a woman with long, stringy dark hair and a man with bright, fiery red.

Arthur gasped, "Percy, what -?"

Percy stepped forward, taking his father's hand. "It's okay."

Arthur pulled his son closer but the memory picked up. An older version of Theo came running in from a door near the back of the room. "Luna, are you hurt?" He paused as he spotted the man and woman.

"...Pansy?" Theo said after a beat, frown tugging at his handsome face.

Abruptly, the woman jerked, sobbing and gripping tighter to the man, who looked up, revealing the older, frightened face of Percy Weasley. There was a smudge of blood on his cheek. The woman wore a thin medical gown and nothing else.

"...What the fuck?" Sirius said, neatly summing up the feelings of the adults in the room.

In the memory, Percy, clad in a battered suit, gently hushed the woman, who quieted some. Percy swallowed. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know where else to go."

"Were you followed?" Theo hissed, looking around as though he expected enemies to burst in at his words. After seeing the Greengrass Manor memory, the returned couldn't call him paranoid.

Percy shook his head, holding tighter to the woman, whose face hadn't left his shoulder. "No, no, I don't think so - they don't even know we're gone, I don't think."

Theo shook his head. "I need to check the wards. Luna?"

Luna smiled tensely. "I'm fine."

Theo nodded and apparated away with a pop. Percy looked wildly to Luna, who approached him gently.

"How can I help?" She asked, nodding to Percy and the woman.

"She's hurt, I don't know precisely how. I -" Percy stuttered, his face wrenching painfully, "She was in the Ministry, the lower levels, I - she was hooked up to something and, and _screaming._ Oh, Merlin, _Luna_ -"

"Alright, I understand," Luna said, like she was talking to an injured animal. "Take a deep breath. You did good, getting her out of there." She turned more to the woman, not touching her, but stepping closer to where she clung to Percy.

"Hello, there," Luna greeted. "Can you tell me your name, please?"

The woman turned her face out and, yes, that was Pansy Parkinson's face. Yet, something was obviously, horribly wrong. She was paper-white, freckles standing out like marker dots. Dark bags hung under her eyes and her lips were cracked and bleeding. Her eyes - her eyes were _black_. Black as though her pupils had expanded and absorbed the whole of her eyeball. The skin around them was an irritated red, with thick black veins reaching out from her eye sockets. She was crying, or at least seemed to be, but the tears weren't right. They didn't even seem to be tears. Rather, it looked like liquid _gold_ was dripping from her eyes before, half way down her cheeks, evaporating away.

Sirius gaped. "What the _fuck!?"_

"For once, Sirius Black, you have my complete agreement," Amelia replied grimly.

"Oh, my," the Luna in the memory murmured. The Percy in the memory looked on in bewildered misery, his arms cradling Pansy like she was an injured bird.

"I've never seen anything like this," Percy sputtered. "I wasn't even supposed to be where I was, not really, but the reports weren't making sense. Resource allocation and budget expense were contradictory and I just - I just wanted to find out. But it was so obvious something was very wrong, once I was there, so I just -"

"You did well, Percy," Luna said again, though her eyes never left Pansy. "Here, will you help me with her? I'd like to have her lie down, so I can examine -"

"No!" Pansy shrieked, pushing away from Percy, who went _flying_ into the wall. She remained hunched, body trembling, as she skittered back into the far corner of the room. She twitched at random, like a possession victim. The black lines around her eyes were spreading, pushing over her twiggy limbs like thin, sickly vines.

"Pansy," Luna tried again but Pansy shuddered violently, cringing.

"No," she moaned, shaking, clinging to herself. "No more, I won't, you can't make me, just _try_ it. Gods, I didn't deserve this," she hissed. Then her head snapped up, revealing that her whole face was littered with the black veins. " _Why_ _don't you just leave me alone!"_

Abruptly, black sand burst from Pansy's body, smashing into walls and furniture, tearing around her like a malevolent tornado, crushing anything in its path. Percy just barely managed to dodge before the sand pulverized the wall he was leaning against.

"Pansy!" Percy shrieked, pulling out his wand. The sand seemed to scream at him, aggravated, and ploughed into the bookshelf just above him. Percy rose a shield charm to fend of the debris.

"I can't stop it!" Pansy wailed. Gold tears poured down her cheeks before floating away from her skin. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, dear Morgana, just leave me be!" Pansy cried. The sand rioted around her, smashing about in terrifying, powerful waves.

"Pansy," Percy pressed, moving closer. He reached out to her, almost touching her shoulder, but Luna shoved him back. Her wand was drawn and for the first time anyone could remember, there was fear in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Luna murmured. She fired right into Pansy's chest. Like a marionette with the strings cut, Pansy dropped. The sand dissipated but before it was gone Luna used her wand to trap some of it in a jelly-like bubble.

"What - what the _hell_ , Luna!?" Percy cried. "Is she dead?"

"Not yet," Luna murmured sadly, "but I don't think she has long."

Percy stood there, horror-struck, eyes flicking from Pansy to Luna. "But - what?"

"I've only seen this in books," Luna said, though from her face she could have very well been speaking to herself. "Grindlewald, he was absolutely fascinated with them. There was a horrible case, in MUSA in the 1920s, where he experimented..."

" _Luna_ ," Percy breathed, apparently aware of what she was leading to.

Luna nodded absently, gently rolling Pansy's unconscious body over, brushing a hand comfortingly over her hair. "Grindlewald wanted to control Obscuri,and ultimately induce the state in his followers." She looked at the sample of sand she had trapped, how it swirled and swooped at itself angrily. "It would seem that the Ministry is drawing from his notes."

The memory dissolved then, leaving the returned to stand in silence. Even the Dark adults, who had largely believed that they had seen everything, couldn't stop the chill of terror. Obscuri were one of the biggest fears in the magical community; that a person could be so harmed that their own magic would ultimately kill them as a form of protection. Even in Voldemort's court, those experiments of Grindlewald's had been whispered about only in the most hushed of academic circles, late at night over a glass of fire whiskey.

"What happened to her?" Remus asked at last. He could remember teaching Pansy Parkinson - thinking that she had quite a bit of potential, actually. The trembling twenty year old in the memory broke his heart.

Luna's face crumpled. "She died. I tried but she wasn't stable. She was - _induced_ , I suppose is a good word - into an Obscuri state artificially, at an age where the state would have never naturally manifested. Her entire magical chemistry was, well, as the muggels put it, _nuclear._ " A tear rolled over Luna's cheek. "Eventually, she melted down."

"She wanted revenge," Percy said abruptly. He rubbed at his eyes jerkily. "For herself and her husband. They were both taken, you know? Along with all the other purebloods who weren't outright slain."

"Why?" Kingsley asked.

Percy sobbed a laugh, which bled into a sigh. He shook himself after a moment, straightening "Even the most paranoid people don't like to do their own paperwork, you know? After the War, I was buried in the Ministry's books, mostly because I was one of the few paper pushers left who knew how to do them. Most of us had died for one side or another." Percy swallowed again, obviously struggling with the words.

Many of the returned exchanged looks. Percy was the most composed out of all of the younger returned; even out of the adults, perhaps only Narcissa, Severus, and Lucius had him beat. To see him tear-up, hear his voice crack and see his hands tremble, was disquieting. As a man, Percy had killed himself with nary a quiver in the voice he had projected over the entire Ministry. This, for Percy, was obviously harder than that had been.

Percy took another deep breath. "I dealt primarily with expense reports. No one had much of a head for maths, either, and I specialized in Arithmancy. According to the reports, huge amounts of money were going to the Department of Mysteries. Yet, there were no requisitions. Even the DoM has paperwork," Percy stressed. "Something was being hidden."

"Experiments," Severus concluded.

"Funded with the money taken from the Dark for reparations," Narcissa added.

"And conducted on anyone arrested - namely, purebloods and magical creatures," Lucius finished. "All hidden in the Department of Mysteries budget, because no one would ever expect the DoM to be held accountable."

"Except for me," Percy agreed.

"I never noticed," Kingsley murmured, appalled. "Not in all my time as Minister. An operation of this scope - it would have had to have begun in my term. It would have taken far longer than you're suggesting."

Something in Percy seemed to snap. "I'm not _suggesting_ anything!" He snarled. "This is what happened! They made a monster machine out of our Ministry! Whether or not you noticed is hardly the point!"

"Mr. Wealsey!" Amelia replied. "Perhaps you should calm yourself."

Percy glared, magic fairly snapping in his eyes. He held up his own vial. "Or maybe you just need a little more _context_ ," he sneered and upended it.

The memory swirled into form and immediately, the returned were swept up in chaos. They were somewhere in the bowels of the Ministry but spell damage made pinpointing the location impossible. Fighters in the black combat outfits of the Greengrass memory stood two to one with a triad of opposition. As the returned settled into the memory, they easily identified the three.

"Draco," Narcissa breathed, eyes fixed on this elder image of her son. The last time she had seen him he had been just eighteen. He must be about twenty in this memory. His hair was longer, braided back and tied off in the middle of his shoulders. One platinum lock fell into his eyes, which glowed like quicksilver as he rose his hands and pushed out, sending five guards flying across the hall. He raised a shield with another fluid flick of his wrist.

The young Draco shifted, aware that he was suddenly under much closer scrutiny than before. "As it turns out," he drawled imperiously, "I am a much better wizard once I lose the wand."

Lucius blinked. He must have gotten that from Great Uncle Percival...

The Greengrass sisters provided Draco cover as he defended, the three of them moving in a tight knot. In short order, they cleared the hall before pausing outside a large pair of doors. The doors outside the Minister's office, Amelia noted belatedly.

Arthur frowned, confused. "Percy, I thought this was your memory?"

Percy didn't need to reply. The Draco in the memory brushed his hand over the air behind him, as though brushing away lint from an imaginary friend. Percy Weasley popped into view. He was different than the first time they had seen him; worn and prematurely aged. He gave the memory Draco a frown.

"I still don't see why you shielded me, Draco. Rather pointless, really."

Draco sneered. "Didn't want you getting damaged before you had to," he said pointedly. Percy's frown intensified but Draco merely turned to the Greengrass sisters. "Set a perimeter, no one in or out. I don't come by in ten minutes, get out of here."

Daphne gave him a frigid smile. "Don't die, Malfoy. The sheer amount of weeping would flood the base." She clapped him gamely on the shoulder before addressing Percy. "Whatever you two are up to, be safe with it." Astoria nodded emphatically and then both sisters apparated away.

When they were gone, Draco turned to Percy. "This is the fucking shittiest thing I've ever heard of, seen, or done, and Voldemort lived in my house for a bit of fourth year."

Percy grinned, wild and reckless. "Well, you kicked him out eventually. That must have had a mitigating effect."

Draco's face went blank. "There won't be for this, you know. Ron's going to kill me, then probably the twins will have a go. You'll have successfully ended the whole Malfoy line with this bit of idiocy."

Percy sighed. "We have to shut it down, Draco. You know that."

"But this -" Draco started, for the first time in the conversation appearing obviously upset.

"- Is the only way," Percy finished. "The wards are just too strong. Theo spent days -"

"He could still be wrong," Draco insisted, desperate now. " _Please_ , Percy."

For those who had never seen a Malfoy beg, they quickly realized that it was not a heartening sight.

Abruptly, Percy clasped Draco's forearm, pulling him into a tight hug. They stayed like that for a moment before separating - but not losing grip of each other's arm.

"You have been a good friend to me," Percy said. "It is to my shame that I did not know you earlier."

"Percy," Draco choked.

"But you must let me go, now, and finish this," Percy said firmly.

Draco chucked weakly. "Letting go is not in a Malfoy's nature. I've grown tired of it."

Percy nodded once, exhaustedly. "I will see you again. We all will."

Draco closed his eyes for a long moment, as though he couldn't bear the sight in front of him. "As you will it. Blessed be, Percy Ignatius Weasley." Then, without another word, he too apparated away.

"What just happened?" Arthur stammered. "I know those words. The memories are so blurry. Percy, what just happened?"

The returned Percy closed his eyes, mirroring the slumped posture the Percy in the memory had taken once Draco left. "The wards at the Ministry are very strong, Dad. Voldemort only broke in because he had a man on the inside. I was that man, in this case. Had been for months by the time of this memory." Percy swallowed. "But we didn't just want to break in or out, now. My cover was blown in the last mission, we had no other people inside, and more and more people were being taken. Even Hogwarts, _children_ , were not safe. The greatest gift of the Wizarding World," Percy murmured.

"The wards had to be brought down. We had to shut off the machine," Draco added, the first thing he had said since Percy had revealed himself in the memory. His voice didn't shake but his eyes were utterly vacant. Narcissa moved to pull him close but Blaise had tucked Draco against his side before she could take a step.

"And those wards," Theo explained, "Are very old and layered with magic. More importantly, they are built on blood." At some of the blank looks from the Light adults, Theo elaborated. "Back in the day, whole hordes of magicals on the pyre or the chopping block swore their blood – their power – to the Ministry. Or, well, the medieval equivalent."

Amelia frowned. "No people died -"

Percy cut her off. "We don't have time for a history lesson. The short of it is, the wards needed a wiling sacrifice to break. I served the purpose."

Dead silence. Tears trailed down Arthur's terrified face. The twins stared on solemnly while Bill balled his fists in rage. Draco stared on dismally. In the memory, Percy looked up from his silent contemplation and promptly kicked in the Minister's office doors. The crack made the assembly jerk. Percy took it in stride, scanning the room. There was no one there. Percy chuckled darkly, settling himself behind the desk. He kicked up his feet onto the table. Lying back in their chair, he produced a small box from his trouser pocket, a pocket watch from his vest, and a photo from his shirt pocket, over his heart. All of these he set on his lap. In the photo, a happy collection of twenty or so young people in black tie laughed with each other.

"Cho and I's wedding," the returned Percy explained. "A shotgun at Black Lake. It was the only way I could see around having Molly take over everything. I regretted that she, Ginny, and Hermione had gone on a sudden trip that weekend but now it seems rather like a blessing."

Memory Percy smiled softly at the photo, before drawing his wand. "Sonorous," he whispered. He kept one eye on the photo and one on the clock, left hand resting lightly on the box's lid.

"Dear Ministry officials, aurors, and associated workers," Percy began, his voice strong and sure, rumbling through the whole building. "By now, I hope evacuation has begun. If not, this is your signal to do so. If you begin this moment, you will have a comfortable allotment of time to complete procedure. No one will be harmed."

Percy took a deep breath. "For those of you unaware, the Ministry has committed crimes against magic. This list is extensive and I have no time to do it justice. If your curiosity is piqued, this list and corroborating evidence is currently in Goblin hands. As the charges do include offences against the Goblin Kingdom, good luck in shutting them up," Percy laughed.

He pressed his lips into a thin line. "Five minutes. I don't hear the alarms – this will end badly for all of us if you don't follow procedure. Come on, Hemsworth, you're not head of security just because you're pretty – though you are that, too. You know I'm not playing."

Percy waited a beat. A high wail filled the memory and Percy smiled. "Thank you, Hemsworth." Percy paused again. He cleared his throat. "To those of you who are confused, who are terrified, who are horrified at what I am implying, you have my apologies and my best wishes. Blessed be, you who know not what has been done. There are sweeter winds to come. You who know what has been wrought, who stood placidly or contributed earnestly," Percy grinned, bloodthirsty and wrathful, "May three times what you've wrought be wrought on thee."

Cancelling the sonorous, Percy took the photo in his hand, kissed it quickly, and glanced one last time at the clock. He nodded to himself and took the box in hand. "One last piece of work to keep the stubborn busy," Percy murmured, unlatching the box. From within flew a mass of the terrible black sand that had burst from Pansy. It shrieked, smashing into furniture and getting larger, more terrible and violent. Then, finally, it smashed through the open doors and into the hall. Screams broke out, accompanied by a symphony of destructive noise. That done, Percy took up his wand again. He was muttering something, a chant, but too low to be heard. His wand changed, shifting into a long, glinting dagger.

"Look away," the returned Percy called abruptly. However, the others were riveted as though stuck watching a broom crash. Percy reached for his father again, who looked on in frozen anguish. "Dad, please -"

But the Percy in memory's eyes were already filling with the frightening metallic light of ritual magic. With a final word there was none of their original colour left at all. Possessed with raw magic and lethal intent, he rose up the dagger and drew it across his throat.

Arthur shrieked, reaching for the memory of his third child, his cautious, clever little Percy. He would have gone to his knees if Bill and Charlie hadn't grabbed him, propping him up and hushing him.

The memory dispersed in a violent burst, the smoke almost angry. Before anyone had a chance to say anything - in shock, horror, support, or detraction - little Astoria Greengrass upended her bottle. The scene shook, the two smokes intermingling, before settling again at the Ministry, though now in an entirely different set of halls. Astoria, beautiful and too young, came charging down the hall. She clutched a bleeding child in a medical gown to her chest. As she rounded a corner, a black swarm of Ministry personal came after her.

"No more," Arthur moaned miserably, "Oh, Gods."

"I'm so sorry," Astoria murmured, her dark eyes full of sympathy. She scanned the room. "But you must see the end."

The Astoria in the memory whipped around, casting a shield just over the child as she fired back. She was skilled very much beyond her years but she was young herself and the Ministry combatants were many. Astoria gasped as a particularly strong hex knocked her onto her back. The combatants rushed forward but found themselves blocked as though they had run into a wall. From behind them, Draco could just be made out, bleeding from the head with both hands thrown up.

Outside the memory, Draco flinched. "This will be messy."

Lucius frowned at his son, mouth open in question, but the answer became terribly clear. When they realized Draco was behind them, the combatants tried to rush him but found themselves equally trapped on that end. Their spells hit Draco's shield like sparks against concrete. A few tried to apparate but that also fizzled out.

"Draco," Narcissa said, voice wavering. Draco just shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he offered lamely. In the memory, Draco brought his hands together with a smack. The ensuing sound would haunt the retuned in their sleep - an awful, wet, crackle; like crunching a hundred beetles underfoot. Caught between Draco's shields as they rushed into each other, the combatants appeared to collapse into slices, like specimens on a glass slide. When Draco dropped his hands, the remains - for they could not be called bodies - fell to the floor in a soup of white, red, and brown.

The Draco in the memory wasted no time. Placing his hands palms down, he appeared to float over the viscera. He did not glance down. Once clear of the mess, he dropped his hands and stepped onto clean carpet, kneeling by Astoria. "Can you walk?" He asked sharply, pressing two finger's to the child's neck.

Astoria coughed. "She's fine and so am I," she snapped with a glare. She did accept Draco's hand up, though. "Percy, where is he?"

Draco's face shuttered. "You felt the wards go?"

Astoria nodded. "Daphne left to inform the others. They'll be here shortly."

Draco nodded once. "Luna should have prepared them. Daphne will be their signal."

Astoria frowned. "What?"

"Percy is dead," Draco said shortly. "Sacrificed himself to take down the wards. That horrible noise we heard? It's a reinforced shard of an Obscurial - the witch it belongs to is dead. It should give us enough time for reinforcements to get here." He looked at Astoria's stunned face. "This is not truly a break out mission. We are clearing the Ministry. Burn it and salt it, Astoria."

As Draco finished, numerous cracks split the air, heralding the arrival of the rest of the Resistance. Daphne appeared first, followed by Dean and Seamus. Then the twins, all four of them kitted in the same specialized combat wear as Daphne and Draco. Then Blaise arrived, coming to rest a hand on Draco's shoulder. Oliver and Marcus, Charlie and Fleur Delacour, and a handful of individuals the adult returned didn't recognize joined them.

Finally, Harry popped into place. The returned adults couldn't help a gasp. Like many of the others, Harry too wore a battle suit, but with a beaten leather jacket thrown over. His hair was longer, tied low at his nape, and he wore different glasses. Yet, these were minor details. What really drew attention was the shear malice that radiated off him with his every step, a prowl that spoke inherently of violence. The other fighters looked lethal - yet, none looked quite so primarily _frightening_ as Harry.

"Draco," Harry greeted, face barely changing expression. They clasped arms.

Draco swallowed, "You've been briefed?"

Harry closed his eyes and nodded, letting their arms fall apart.

"Neville and Ron?" Draco asked softly.

If anything, Harry's face grew even colder. "With Bill and Fenrir. The wolves should be in the atrium as we speak. You know our direction?"

Draco nodded. "Percy briefed me."

"We'll run point, then." Not a command, not a question; merely a statement of fact. Harry turned to the rest of the rebels. "Rescue anyone you can, kill anyone who interferes, and with lost cases, be humane. Don't try to be a hero. If you're done, get out. There are few enough of us as it is. In all situations, trust your judgement." Harry glanced around quickly, taking in the grim faces of his cohort. "I need not remind you, Percy died for this opportunity. Do not waste it.

A resounding wave of agreement went through the crowd. Draco and Harry dashed off in the midst of it. The flutter of images that followed were, frankly, disgusting beyond description. The rebels seemed to run across living examples of every horrific experiment dated from the work of ancient necromancers to Grindlewald. The effect was a montage of terror, pain, and distress that could turn the sanest person mad. By the time the memory ended, with an exhausted Astoria falling sobbing into Daphne's arms, the witnessing returned felt like they had been sucker-punched.

"Well," Narcissa said after the silence had stretched uncomfortably long. "I would now like to propose we break for the evening. We may continue the next day. I feel at this moment that viewing any more would do more harm than good.

Lucius nodded. "I concur. Theodore, could you close the spell?"

With a glance to Harry, who nodded, Theo inclined his head to Lucius and canceled the spell. Slowly, everyone began to drift apart, leaving in small groups or alone to decompress. Draco was speaking softly to his parents when Ron walked up behind him. The rest of the Weasley family was gathered around Ron.

"Draco?" Ron asked gently. Draco jerked. When he turned, however, he looked perfectly composed.

"Yes?" Draco replied, hesitant. Reviewing the memories, especially _this_ memory, had screwed him up a little more than he had expected.

As if sensing this, Ron didn't bother anymore with words. He merely pulled Draco into a tight hug. "I never blamed you," he murmured in Draco's ear. "None of us ever did."

"It was my choice," Percy confirmed. "You, Luna, Theo - none of you were responsible."

The twins nodded. "If we even knew you felt that way -" Fred started.

"We would have put an end to it right quick," George finished.

"There was nothing you could have done," Bill agreed.

Charlie nodded. "Percy was dead set on it," he said with a wink.

Arthur flicked Charlie behind the ear, "That was an awful joke. No wonder the twins have no tact." With a gusty sigh, he gave a tremulous smile to Draco.

"You are obviously quite close to at least two of my sons," Arthur said. "I do wish I had known you earlier. However, even from just these memories, I know that none of this was your fault."

As Draco and Ron parted, Draco looked physically more exhausted than ever before. As though summoned by Draco's distress, Blaise appeared and took his hand.

"Thank you," Draco said after a moment. A relieved smile had broken over his face.

Ron smiled back. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah, I guess you will," Draco replied, rubbing at his eyes. His smile turned dreadful. "After all, not enough of us died to leave it there."

* * *

 **Hello, lovelies! I have just started Uni, so that's why this took some time. Your support is what kept me going. Now, I'm thinking I'm going to devote perhaps two more chapters to memories before moving on, so please tell what memories you'd like to see! They don't all have to be sad, either. For the sake of brevity, let's say each returned can only give a memory once, so that takes Rita, Daphne, Luna, Percy, and Astoria off the list. Otherwise, suggest away. Edited 8/20/2017.**

 **Anyway, please tell me what you think! Your reviews are what gibe me power to update! As always, I'm happy to answer anything.**

 **Yours truly,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**

 **Ps: Can you count the Fantastic Beasts references? I'm still in emotional pain from that movie and I saw it in December. #WhereIsTheRealPercivalGraves?!**


	18. Bound to You

Harry splashed water on his face, the motions automatic and thoughtless. As they should be, after so much practice, Harry thought wryly. Standard nightmare procedure, honestly. As familiar as breathing or casting a shield charm. Towelling off, his eyes found his childish reflection in the mirror and Harry had to take another moment to focus his breathing. Inhaling deep through his nose, he let the air seep slowly out through his mouth. He did this several times until his heart stopped hammering and settled into something less like a spell-barrage against his breastbone. Was he ever going to become used to seeing that baby face staring back at him? He wondered if he would adjust or if he would have to wait another decade to quit feeling wrong-footed every time he glanced at something reflective. The weird part was that this _felt_ like his body. His brain just didn't seem keen on recognizing it as such.

Harry was still bent over the sink when a hand settled gently between his skinny shoulder blades, an as-yet uncalloused thumb rubbing soothing circles over his skin. Peeking through his bangs, Harry shot a smile at Neville, who returned it kindly. There was worry in his eyes, however.

"How are you?" Neville asked softly. "How are you _really_?"

Harry stilled, then straightened. He pulled in another breath. "Not as bad as you'd think. I did lose it a bit, back at the castle -"

Neville snorted. "A bit?"

Harry blushed. "Maybe a little more than that. But I'm feeling better, now." A smile flittered onto his face. "Talking to Sirius helped a lot. So does seeing that many of the adults seem to get it." Harry swallowed. "Makes me feel more like they won't turn on us."

Neville blinked. "You thought they would?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. It's a fear, I guess."

"Not an unreasonable one," Ron threw in as he, too, stepped into the bathroom. He immediately began fussing with his bangs, staring intently at the mirror, but nothing really helped his bed-head. Harry felt a smile creep up again.

"There's less risk now, I think," Ron added absently. After a few more flicks, he gave up with his hair, hands falling to his sides. His blue eyes stared back strangely from the mirror, too old for his babyish face, Harry thought. Like a changeling's. Like Harry's, and Neville's, and so many others'.

As though thinking the same thoughts, they looked at their reflection in the mirror for a moment, silent, almost entranced by the image of innocence portrayed which was so incongruous with their minds and emotions. Harry eventually broke the spell, shaking his head. "Well, I for one want this memory horror show over before Christmas. Let's get on with it."

Ron smirked as they all shuffled out of the washroom. "Thought it was a bit odd we were all hanging around in the loo."

Neville smacked his arm playfully, "Hush, you."

The three of them bickered that way through the walk to the dining room, where the returned had gathered for breakfast. As with dinner the night before, Narcissa had ordered an impeccable feast out spread for them. The mood of the room, however, was better than it had been at dinner. People seemed less miserable, if not quite happy. There was still a fog of melancholy hanging over the returned, with families and lovers orbiting around each other in quiet pods, but Harry figured that that was the best probable outcome. At least no one was glancing around suspiciously, as though suspecting an attack - or worse, doing any attacking.

As breakfast ended, Narcissa rose and shuffled them all off to the sitting room, where without much prompting Theo once again cast the projector spell. They all stood around for a moment, waiting to see who would start them off again.

"Well," Draco drawled at last, "Where do we want to begin?" He cast a tired eye at the adults. "Anyone have any questions? Suggestions? Explosions of passionate rage?"

Amelia snorted. "I'd give into the last one if I thought it would do any good." She rubbed an exhausted hand over her face. Clearly, the minister had not slept well. Had anyone been looking, they would have caught a flicker of concern as it skipped across Rita Skeeter's face.

Narcissa, who never missed much, shot an interested look at her girlhood friend. Rita made a point of not meeting her eyes. Narcissa hid a smirk and made a note to have Rita for wine sometime soon, off the record. It would be a nice break from discussing the past, Narcissa thought idly. She had not removed her hand from Draco's shoulder all morning. She hadn't been given to such emotion since he had been a toddler nor had he allowed her to since then.

She rubbed her thumb lightly over the fine fabric of his shirt. A pity, that. Present events made her wish she'd had more time to hold him. She felt as though she had missed so much... Tilting her head, Narcissa had a thought. "Pray excuse a lady," she murmured demurely, confident that her words had carried and would be heard. The concurrent silence proved her right. "But perhaps we could see a positive memory next? Presuming there is one, of course." She cast her eyes lightly around the room. "Call it a mother's hope."

As she had expected, a number of faces around the room softened. Arthur Weasley shot her a frankly grateful look and even Lucius' icy facade melted a touch. Amelia Bones bit her lip and looked down, as if to hide her agreement, and dear Rita smiled briefly. Sirius' face bloomed with an excited grin, reflected by Remus' milder smile, and Severus didn't voice any opposition so Narcissa assumed she had his approval, too.

Then her eyes met Kingsley's and Narcissa had to look away. She had not said a word to her (future?) husband since they had returned. She wanted to, and had even alluded her feelings to the public, but she... Narcissa blinked, forcibly pulling herself away from those thoughts. She could focus on herself later. For now, she had other points of interest to give her attention to.

She smoothed her thumb once more over Draco's shoulder, contented when another degree of tension leaked away from his frame.

"Would that serve the purpose, though?" Susan Bones queried. A few of the other youth nodded, exchanging dreary looks with each other. Susan straightened up, setting her shoulders as the scrutiny of the room turned to her. Narcissa thought she had never looked more like her aunt. "I mean, seeing the happy stuff is hardly the point."

Parvati Patil nodded. "Does anyone even have anything? I certainly didn't go bubbly with my pick."

Neville Longbottom coughed. "I did, actually." He smiled sweetly at Harry and Ron, "I thought you might like Sirius and your dad to see our wedding."

"I did, too," Blaise Zabini added, cutting off the excited exclamations of Arthur and Sirius.

Narcissa regarded him curiously. Calista Zabini's only child, who had grown up to be even lovelier than his famously beautiful mother. Narcissa remembered attending the wedding of the boy's parents. She had also attended the further six weddings Calista had been party to after Harith Ibori-Zabini had died and all _those_ proceeding funerals. The rumour had come about, of course, that those hearts Calista Zabini possessed did not beat for long.

The Zabini boy, Narcissa had not failed to notice, had not left Draco's side since they had entered the Manor. Draco had gone to Italy with him, Narcissa remembered. They were close friends. She had been so very grateful, at the time, because she had thought it would keep Draco out of danger. Remembering Blaise's mother, her perfect composure behind the black veil she wore to all those funerals, Narcissa hoped she had not been short-sighted in that.

In any case, Draco was looking curiously at Blaise. "What is it?"

Blaise looked down and took Draco's hand in his. "Our wedding, actually."

Draco, who Narcissa had only seen stressed or sad since his return, veritably melted. He pressed closer to Blaise, as though the rest of the world had gone away. Narcissa's hand slipped from his shoulder.

"Oh, darling," Draco said. A smile broke across his face. "It was the wedding of the century," he drawled, teasing and boastful. Blaise tucked a laugh behind his hand, accepting Draco's arm around his waist with the grace of practice. "By far the best I have ever been to," Draco murmured. He kissed Blaise's cheek.

They fit together like puzzle pieces, Narcissa thought, dazed by the picture. Draco looked barely eleven. At this point, he was meant to still be obsessed with Quidditch and besting Harry Potter. Not cooing with his husband about their wedding. She had already seen images of Draco older, killing people horrifically – and Gods, how that hurt - her son who couldn't bat a peacock out of the way, slaughtering with nary a flinch - but this really drove home the difference. Her child had grown up, no matter what he looked like now.

She had missed so much.

Narcissa slipped a glance to Lucius, unsurprised by the horror that briefly skipped across his face. He was probably thinking through everything he knew about the Zabini family, just as Narcissa had. However, where she had stopped at caution, Lucius had likely jumped straight to fear. He had always been the panicker in the family, Narcissa thought fondly. She raised an eyebrow at Remus, who easily caught the hint and leaned up to murmur in Lucius' ear. Some of the tension melted away from her best friend and ex-husband. One crisis averted, then. Narcissa went back to watching their son. Perhaps she could see him married before the next popped up. Even if just in memory.

"I would like to see that," Narcissa said, keen on her goal. "I admit I don't much care for the purpose."

Arthur Weasley cleared his throat, almost shyly. "I just watched my son die. I'd like to see something positive, too, if it's not much of a bother."

A round of supportive mumbles fluttered up from the adults while the young returned exchanged glances. Finally, Harry spoke up. "Alright. Everyone with happy memories, let's see them. The rest of you depressing bastards can go after." He smirked as the other youths scoffed and snickered. "Let's see if we can't end this before Christmas."

The young made agreeable noises. Many of the adults, on the other hand, looked surprised by Harry's tone. Frankly, Narcissa didn't know why. They had seen a commander in the last memory. This was simply that commander stepping to the forefront.

Content that her directive skill was unneeded, Narcissa went back to watching her son and, she supposed, her son-in-law. Draco was smiling softly still, eyes glued to Blaise. He looked as though he could die happy, if only he could do so looking at Blaise. The look struck terror into Narcissa's heart, well aware of just what one would do to protect the object of such love. Had this been what Calista's husbands had been like?

Narcissa didn't have the time to ruminate on those thoughts, though. With a nod to Harry, Blaise upturned his vial. A forest rose up around them, the air cool and filled with sweet, natural smells. Just a hint of smoke tickled Narcissa's nose. Night had fallen but a full moon hung heavy in the sky, painting the scene in silvery light. Through the trees, a chorus of merry voices could be heard and the flicker of firelight barely discerned.

Sirius looked around curiously. There was an odd sort of eagerness to the place, almost as if the very trees were excited to have visitors. "Where's this, then?"

Neville answered with a wistful smile on his face. "We were never totally sure. A forest the world forgot about, I guess. Of all our safe houses, this was the only one that was never breached."

Draco snorted, but fondly. Narcissa smiled - such contradictory expressions brought Draco's resemblance to Lucius into stark relief. "Safe house?" Draco continued, drawing Narcissa from her musings. "It was a patch of woods in the middle of nowhere that one of the old Malfoy port keys spit us out on. _House_ is a bit of a mischaracterization."

Narcissa frowned, locking eyes with Lucius and meeting glaciers. "Draco," Lucius started, voice forbidding. "Those keys -"

"We had to use them or die, Father," Draco said mildly. Narcissa felt a chill go down her back. Even given that choice, Narcissa wasn't sure Draco had taken the best option.

"I don't understand," Amelia frowned. "Why such fuss?"

Lucius sighed, looking as uncomfortable as Narcissa had ever seen him. "What Draco is talking about are not port keys in the traditional sense. Truth be told, even I never quite knew what -"

"They are not port keys at all - ever keys, rather," Arthur Weasley, of all people, cut in. His expression was vaguely surprised, as though he weren't quite sure why he was speaking, but all the same his words came confidently. That in itself might be the most unexpected part, Narcissa thought. The man she had known to this point was not what one thought of as such.

This Arthur, however, didn't flinch even as he locked eyes with Lucius, as though expecting him to follow along. "Port keys are time-sensitive and even the illegal ones are traceable. That's because they use lines of magic to connect two places, like a bridge. But these keys, ever keys, they don't expire, nor do they use bridges. They are quite literally keys - they open doors that have been built in time and space, letting the possessor 'walk' into a new place. They can't be traced because there's no bridge to follow, just a door that won't open without its key."

Lucius blinked, taken aback. "Well, yes. But that's not common knowledge -"

Arthur interrupted him, his eyes distant. "No, I'd rather think not. It's a terrible hassle making them and it takes a very powerful person to do it effectively. It all went rather awfully at first, but -" Arthur stopped abruptly, looking around the forest as though mesmerized. "You were right about this place being forgotten," he murmured, almost dreamily. "I think that was actually the point."

"Dad," Bill said, caution filling the word. Fenrir Greyback hovered at his shoulder. Several of the group were trading anxious looks with each other now, let alone Lucius, who Narcissa had not seen so unsettled since the first time the Dark Lord had crucio'd him.

"I'm alright," Arthur said, brushing off the hand Charlie placed on his shoulder, stepping away from the crowding of Percy and the twins. He smiled gently at Ron when he made a noise of concern. "It's just, this is Albania, isn't it?" Arthur said. He looked back to Lucius. "And this key came off of a ring of five that Abraxas gave you just before he died. You were never told where they lead." Arthur narrowed his eyes, as though struggling for focus. "You used to keep them on you, just in case, but then the Dark Lord started slipping..."

"How the _hell_ do you know that?" Lucius all but barked, unease shifting quickly to anger. Remus had a hand on his arm but Narcissa knew from experience that such actions would do little to keep Lucius from drawing his wand. She found herself nervously wondering just what would happen if someone tried to cast while viewing a memory.

Arthur jerked like he had been slapped. Immediately, all the previous confidence in his posture drained away, replaced with astonishment and fear. "Honestly, I haven't a clue. Lucius, I swear to Merlin, I don't know what came over me." His sons closed rank around him, which Arthur now accepted without a fight.

"The Amortentia," Draco and Severus murmured, potion's masters both. They shared a surprised look, unused to being on par with each other, but any possible humor was drowned by the tension.

 _So much for a relaxing, happy memory,_ Narcissa thought, not without some bitterness.

"The hell's that got to do with anything?" Charlie snapped, crossing his arms defensively.

"Memory loss is a common side-effect," Draco said, head tilting in contemplation.

"Yes, but not in those _around_ the victim," Severus replied, eyes on Lucius. "From your words, Arthur, it would seem that you know about what very few ever did and that few all knew each other quite well. It is odd, then, that none of us would remember you."

"Are you accusing our dad of joining up with -" Charlie started but Bill clipped him in the side before he could stick his foot fully in his mouth.

"As I said," Serverus replied silkily, "odd."

"If it helps," Arthur replied, rubbing an exhausted hand over his face, "I don't remember much about my life that isn't connected directly to Molly or the children. Patches of this and that, but nothing concrete. You could tell me I'd sold muggle rubber ducks for spending money and I'd have no reference to disprove you." A little, possibly hysterical laugh punctuated his words.

Severus hummed. Lucius' expression slipped from anger to concern. He looked poised to speak but just then a roaring laugh spilled from the clearing. The bushes shook. An older Blaise Zabini pushed through the foliage, grinning to outshine the moon. His hair was longer than Narcissa had ever seen it, falling below his chin in a wave of tiny braids. A few had been pulled back, holding in place a small bunch of her namesake: narcissus flowers, known also as daffodils. Their white petals and bright orange centres stood out beautifully in the dark gloss of his braids.

"We wanted to include everyone we could and abide tradition as much as possible," Blaise offered, almost shy. He and Draco had clasped hands.

Narcissa found herself smiling at them both, pleased and touched. Flowers, in a traditional, European Wizarding wedding, were meant to stand as symbols for what the couple wanted of their future. She and Lucius had shocked society by marrying with bird of paradise and dahlia - bright, foreign flowers wishing for elegance, strength under pressure, and freedom, promising commitment to each other but not love. It was the only rebellion they had issued about their arranged marriage and by the end of the summer wedding season dozens of other pairs had copied them. Most had been muggleborn or Light couples without a clue what the flowers said. _Witch Weekly_ had hailed them the trendsetting wedding couple of the decade. Narcissa had canceled her subscription that day.

Now, however, she felt joy. "Rebirth and hope," she murmured softly. She smiled specifically at Blaise, endeared by how he shyly met her eye. "I am honoured, dears," she said. She was even more contented by how Blaise relaxed, giving her an honest smile while Draco all but beamed.

"Hold on, Zabini, Gods know Draco will pitch a right fit if this is fucked up," Ron's voice broke through the trees. His body followed a moment later. Arthur, surprised, couldn't hold back a gasp. This was the oldest Arthur had ever seen Ron, his youngest boy. He favoured Charlie more than Bill, Arthur thought, but he had gotten the Weasley height like Bill. Like Charlie's, his face was sharper than Arthur's, features more defined - a Prewett gene. His eyes, too, were Prewett blue, like Percy. He had Arthur's mouth, though, shared with the twins; Arthur's attitude, too, apparently. From what Arthur could remember of his youth, at least.

In any case, he felt his heart swell as his boy bumped shoulders companionably with Blaise Zabini, offering the groom a gentle grin. "Not that I think you could fuck it up," Ron continued, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "Draco's so gone it'll be a miracle if he's able to keep his mind off you long enough to get through the vows."

The young Draco grinned, unrepentant. To Blaise, he murmured, "It's still a miracle I'm able to do anything but think of you."

Blaise flushed, tugging their twined hands up so he could kiss Draco's knuckles. "My heart's the same, Caro."

Sirius cooed, unable to keep it back. He was a romantic at heart and seeing Narcissa's sarcastic son all mushy made him feel warm and fuzzy inside. He leaned into Severus' side, quietly thrilled when his taciturn husband - boyfriend? Did time travel do you apart as well as death? - wrapped an arm around his waist. He was distracted from his romantic thoughts when a third body broke through the brush - Harry!

Sirius couldn't deny being excited to see his boy grown-up again. He had missed so much, dying so early. Even though Harry had assured him that he didn't blame him, Sirius couldn't quite let go of the guilt of not being there. If he was being honest, his biggest incentive for watching these memories was to gain more insight - maybe then he could be of more help. His fist clenched. He refused to let Harry down again.

Severus' arm disappeared from around his waist, as expected. Severus was never very demonstrative outside of their rooms. Still, they shared a glance. Life would be different this time, that look promised. Fool me once, Sirius thought grimly, but don't ever let me find out. There won't be a second chance.

In this memory, Harry was no more than a year older than he had been in the last, physically. However, where before he had been an image of vivid danger, he now wore a shroud of exhaustion that aged him. He looked tired and sad, Sirius thought, even through the smile he gave Blaise.

"Are we ready?" Harry asked, smile inching up a touch. "Because, honestly, I don't think Neville can keep Draco stalled another minute."

There was a round of giddy chuckles before Ron bowed out, "Well, then, that's my cue. See you at the end of the isle!" With a kiss to Harry's cheek, he dashed through another line of bushes, moving closer to the distant firelight. A few moments later, stirrings of music rose from beyond the greenery.

Harry turned to Blaise, offering an arm. "Ready?"

Blaise took the arm happily, his grin never dimming. "I have been for years."

Together, the pair moved through the bushes, following a trim little path that opened into a wide clearing. Guests in a mishmash of conjured formal robes and armour stood in a loose circle around four crackling bonfires. Breathtaking magical flowers filled the ground not occupied by people - glowing purple Merlin's breath tangling merrily with sparkly white dragonalia and golden aphroditia. Only a small isle and a circle in the centre were left otherwise grassy. Neville, so tall and muscular that those who hadn't known him then were taken aback, occupied the center with Ron, stood at Draco's side.

Hair free but for the locks tied back to hold a small collection of yellow jasmine in place, Draco wore white like Blaise. He held Lucius' wand in his left hand, the cane piece slipped into a holster on his hip. As Blaise joined him, wand drawn in his right, both clasped their free hands and sank to one knee. Silence descended, interrupted only by the chattering fire. The tension built a moment, like a breath of anticipation, before finally Neville began to chant, the words lyrical and ancient and recognizable only to a handful of the returned.

"Oh," Narcissa sighed, utterly captured by the moment's beauty. She met Lucius' eye, commiserating with the dove-soft expression on his face. They had been married like this, too, of course – but theirs had been but another show, just as the public, Lighter wedding had been. This was not that. This was a real, traditional ritual, designed not just to bind people and families and interests but _souls_. There was a power here that could be summoned only by truthful emotion and intention and even if only viewing the memory, the magic was tangible.

"What is this?" Amelia Bones murmured, voice awed. It's just a memory, she thought insistently, and not even one of her Susan or anyone she knew. There was no way she should _feel_ so much. Yet...

"It's a Bonding," Rita replied softly, intently, her eyes rapt on the scene. Amelia could hear the capitalization in her voice. "I've only ever been to one," she continued, remembering witnessing Narcissa kneel for the first and only time she had ever seen. "But this..."

"...Is real," Sirius finished, sotto voce. He had forgotten, he realized blearily, how arresting Old Magic, _Dark Magic_ , was. How it hummed in his bones, buzzed in his blood, made his body _sing._ Even just with the brief contact of a had been so desperate to escape that he had forced himself to forget. He had been willing to do anything to leave behind the pain inflicted by his parents, their casual torments. To avoid becoming _like_ them. To his young self, that had meant throwing his whole being into the Light – even when he burned so badly he only found peace in drunken blackouts. He had thought of it like a purge, like cleansing fire. Even when James, whose magic had felt the like the gentlest, _rightest_ Light of anyone Sirius had ever met, had begged him to at least be more moderate, Sirius had persevered. He had accepted the pain as a penance. After all, Dumbledore had said it was necessary, that the tremors and insomnia and night terrors and migraines would pass as he skipped more solstices, rituals, burned his runes and melted down his sacrificial knives. Anything, _Merlin_ – because Light wizards knew of no _Gods_ – to not be as terrible as his parents.

He'd had to die to realize that Light could be just as horrifying as Dark. That Dumbledore's magic only felt familiar to him because it made him feel sick, just as his parents' had. That Severus could feel just as gentle as James, though more like _coming home_ than James ever had.

Sirius didn't realize tears had escaped him until Severus was brushing them away, dark eyes fixed on Sirius with an intensity that would have subdued the bravest of sentient life. "What can I do?" He asked, voice below a whisper, the words only for Sirius.

Sirius bit back a disbelieving laugh. How lucky was he to have Sev, always so carefully observant, so perfectly worded with his questions? Severus knew Sirius wasn't okay. Severus knew he should be concerned. There was no point in asking about that. Severus couldn't deduce a solution alone, however, so that would be where he sought information. Gods, Sirius thought, tasting the word in his mind the way one might the name of a dear but distant friend. _Gods_.

"Marry me," Sirius replied, matching Severus' tone. No one was paying them any mind - how could they? The whole room was swept up in the memory - but that wasn't the point. Sirius would have shouted if his instincts said so. But they hadn't, so for the first time since he had turned eleven he let himself embrace his quietest voice. "The way you wanted, the way we should have, if I hadn't been such an idiot."

Severus had never said anything but Sirius had known. Known that Severus was Dark, was happy to be. That the rituals and rites were ingrained in him deeper than the tenants of potions-making, as integral as the necessity of breathing and blinking. Sirius had been like that once, before he had let himself be terrified into burning out his heart, his soul, his _magic_. A dozen times before the wedding he had waited on tenterhooks, certain that Severus would bring up having an Old Magic ceremony along with the Light acceptable wedding. A bond would happen either way, but the ceremony brought it to fruition all at once, binding them together instantly and permanently versus the gradual effect of Light marriage and romantic cohabitation. What happened in a decade the ceremony would do in ten minutes.

Sirius honestly didn't know what he would have said if Severus had asked. He had drawn up a million counter-arguments, but in the short time they had been together Sirius had never denied Severus what he wanted, if only because Severus asked for so little. In the end, however, it hadn't mattered. Severus had never brought it up and so neither had Sirius, even if the desire on Severus' part was blatant.

If he'd had any doubt about that, the way Severus froze at Sirius' words would have confirmed his suspicions. His dark eyes were lit with that undisclosed desire, his hands still with the wariness of a man trying not to frighten a wild, flighty animal. After a beat, one hand returned to his side, while the other griped Sirius' shoulder before slowly, possessively sliding down his chest, over his ribs, to sit like a brand around the curve of his hip. He was tugged in closer than before, tighter - he couldn't have pulled away without drawing the attention of the room. Severus watched him through this, his eyes invasive and analytical but not magical. He wasn't digging around Sirius' brain. No, he was merely reading Sirius' soul, as only Severus had ever managed.

Finally, he nodded once, firmly. "Yes." For all intents and purposes, he then appeared to forget their conversation had existed as he turned back to the memory. Yet, his hand remained firm and proprietary on Sirius' hip, not drifting away as he was liable to. Sirius felt satisfaction expand in his heart, warming him from the inside out like the first breaths of a balmy night. Unable to resist the impulse, he let his head fall to Severus' shoulder, aware that this was the most affectionate they had ever been in front of anyone. He immediately expected Severus to move away. Instead, a tiny smile twitched at the corner of Sev's mouth and something in Sirius' chest that he hadn't been aware was knotted came undone.

In the memory, the crowd cheered and the music kicked up, but the central pair didn't notice, too lost in their first bonded kiss. Still wound together, mouth to mouth and chest to chest, Draco and Blaise Malfoy rose as one, their joined hands fastened by glowing light, wands raised to the sky and touching at the tip, releasing the most beautiful ribbon of glowing colours that Sirius had ever seen.

Through it all, Severus did not let go. For the first time in quite possibly his life, Sirius Black felt something that might be peace.

* * *

 **So, a new chapter! Praise the Gods, honestly. Anyway, thank you again to everyone who reviewed and PM'd. You darlings are fantastic and the entire reason this chapter was written! Thank you so much for your support! As always, don't hesitate to come chat with me! I love hearing from you - even if it takes me a bit to reply :( Edited 8/20/2017.**

 **Yours Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	19. The Lull

"That was lovely, boys," Narcissa murmured, misty-eyed but diligently holding back tears. She couldn't quite hold back her blush, however, when Kingsley gallantly offered her a handkerchief. Accepting with a quiet thank you, she dutifully dabbed at her eyes, hiding her smile behind her palm. She couldn't help it; she suddenly felt all of sixteen.

Kingsley smiled at her - that slow, intimate smile his stony face never gave to anyone else. Dark warmth slipped down her spine and Narcissa quickly jerked her eyes away, lest she lose composure. She caught the barely restrained amusement Lucius was sporting and narrowly avoided the impulse to elbow him in the side. Yes, Narcissa thought fondly, just like when she was sixteen.

Sirius grinned, tousling Draco's hair affectionately. "Yes, little nephew-mine, nice job," he said over Draco's offended squawk. Sirius turned beseeching eyes on Neville. " _Now_ can we watch my pup get hitched?"

Chuckles broke out among the group, including Draco. Though, he did give Sirius a lethal glare when Sirius made to take another swipe at his hair. Images of Draco's affinity for wandless magic fresh in his mind, Sirius quickly settled down.

Upending his bottle, Neville smiled as warm, salty air tickled his nose. A gentle breeze blew through the memory and soft white sand slid underfoot. Not ten steps away, teal water pushed up playfully against the sand. The sun beat down bright and friendly. The scene was as different from Britain as one could imagine.

The twins hummed in harmony, identical expressions of bliss on their faces. "Where are we?" Fred asked dreamily.

"Paradise? Elysium? Heaven?" George mumbled.

Ron snorted, "Bathsheba, Barbados, actually." His face softened, "It's a fishing village - we rented a cottage and spent our days surfing and getting a tan."

Harry snickered. "Spent our days failing at surfing, more like."

"And even with the charms, you went lobster red," Neville added playfully. "I had to rub you down with salve every night."

Ron leered at Neville – as much as an eleven-year-old face could, at least. "Well. You can't say that didn't make the nights _interesting_."

"Ugh," Daphne cut in, "That's more than I needed to hear."

"I don't know," Parvati mused, smirking. "I like _interesting."_

Ron coughed. "Uh, never mind."

The young returned laughed, jostling and joking with each other. Sirius smiled - they reminded him so much of he, James, and Remus at that age, all mischief and fun. Such a shame such things didn't last, Sirius thought, suddenly tired.

Louder, adult laughter broke the returned from their musings. A trio of young men rounded the corner, led by a smiling African woman. All three men wore billowy white cotton muggle clothes, their hair free, not a flower in sight. Instead, Neville had the sword of Gryffindor in a scabbard on his hip while Harry had his wand holstered on his arm, Ron with his on his thigh. The dark colors of the scabbard and holsters stood out in stark contrast against the white cloth. All three teenagers - for not one of them was over eighteen, Rita mused, though Ron and Harry had already been married and divorced once - also wore blinding smiles.

Sirius made a little happy sound in the back of his throat. From behind, he wrapped his arms around Harry and pulled him into a hug. "My little pup!" Sirius crowed, "All grown up and getting married!" He refused to count the wedding to Ginevra, though he had been there for that one. Obviously, something hinky had gone on there – and once again, Sirius had failed to find out what and protect Harry from it. Sirius held his pup tighter, clinging to the notion that such things had yet to happen. He had time to make up for his past mistakes.

Unaware of Sirius' thoughts, Harry gave into the hug with a laugh. In the memory, his older self smiled as the woman came to a stop and guided the three men into a triangle. She was older, her curly hair almost all gray, face laced with smile lines and happy crow's feet. Harry watched his own nervous face as his past self hurriedly linked hands with Ron and Neville.

Harry jerked his head in the woman's direction. "That's Aisha," he explained. "She's the Head Priestess of Barbados - basically the leader of the magical community there. She wanted to marry us herself. She said she rarely saw love bonds so strong," Harry finished with a sappy smile.

Sirius cooed, his dark thoughts smothered by a fresh wave of giddiness. Reluctantly, Sirius let Harry free to go stand with his once-and-future husbands. Biting back a happy sigh, Sirius let his eyes wander over this future version of his boy. His pup looked so happy in this memory and almost exactly like how Sirius remembered leaving him. His eyes were darker, though; dimmed by sorrows Sirius only knew some scant details of. However, they were not yet as broken as Sirius had seen. Suffocating the impulse to gather Harry up in his arms again and hide him away until he was thirty, Sirius vowed to stop thinking so damn much and just enjoy the memory.

"We are gathered here today," Aisha said, raising her hands, "To celebrate the marriage and bonding of three souls. Do you three consent to becoming one?"

In turn, each man gave their assent. Aisha smiled. "Then bring forth the rings and let them be given."

Harry, Ron, and Neville each provided her a plain silver band. Aisha's smile brightened as she cupped the rings in her hand. In a sibilant murmur, she began to chant. Some words were English, others definitely not. Together, the pace of the chant blended all the words into a pleasant almost-song. Her free hand glowed softly, as though light were glued to her palm. Slowly, she brought that hand up and circled it three times over the rings, which took on the glow. She gave one ring back to Harry, Ron, and Neville each. "Now," she said in English, "by these powers vested in me, let Magic hear your vows and the bonding be complete."

The trio dropped the hands they had been holding. They exchanged nervous grins before Ron finally took a deep breath. "Neville," he began, formally but with a joyful smile. "The first time I met you, it was because you were looking for that damned toad. He's probably trying to escape our cabin as I speak."

Both Nevilles, memory and not, chuckled at that. "Such a romantic," the present Neville whispered to Ron, who blushed.

In the memory, Ron carried on undeterred by his fiancé's amusement. "I still say life would be better if you'd lost that creature on the train," Ron added playfully, but then his face went soft. "Yet, I'd never wish that if the price were losing you. You are the most caring, loving person I have ever met. You are a brave fighter but still kinder than I ever thought it was possible to be after the sort of life we've lived. You returned gentleness to my life when I thought I would never experience that again. You gave me faith when I had none to give you. Your patience is a miracle." Ron took a breath, blinking hard. "You complete our circle. I vow to stand by you in the winter as in the spring, when the days are dark as when they are light, and until the end of all things. Do you accept me?" Ron asked, offering his ring, which still glowed softly.

Neville beamed. "Yes, I do, of course." Eagerly, Ron slipped the ring onto Neville's finger. Sparks of yellow and red magic danced briefly in the air between them before settling.

Neville turned to Harry. "Harry," Neville began, eyes glittering. "The most important rule of my life is that boldness is not a requirement of bravery. You taught me that. Not in words but in actions. Because though you spent much of our school years quite literally shouting at your enemies," in the memory, Ron couldn't restrain a snort. Harry merely grinned, while Neville shot Ron a glare before continuing. "Even when silenced, your bravery continued in forms I never thought bravery could take. In recent years, I have come to know the sweet man from which that strength stems and I now couldn't imagine my life without you. I know that you complete our circle." Neville paused. "I vow to stand by you in the winter as in the spring, when the days are dark as when they are light, and until the end of all things. Do you accept me?"

"I do," Harry replied, his face radiating happiness as Neville slipped the band on his finger. As before, sparks lit up the air between them, this time in yellow and green.

As the sparks dissipated, Harry turned to Ron. "Ron," Harry said. "I honestly believe that my life started when I met you." Ron laughed, blushing, but Harry just smiled - a soft, solemn thing. He waited until Ron met his eye again before continuing. "Some would say that entering the Wizarding World would be a reasonable start or maybe Hogwarts. But those things didn't feel real to me. I only had them for nine months of the year. During those summers, they could have been dreams." Harry cleared his throat, obviously fighting with tears. "You, though, I still had. Your letters always and later on, visits. Even the odd prison break," Harry chuckled roughly. "Even when we fought, I never lost that faith."

Ron was blinking fast, smile watery. "Sometimes I thought you should have. Wouldn't have blamed you," Ron mumbled. A tear rolled down his cheek but Harry reached up and brushed it away.

"In barely two months of knowing me, you backed me up against a troll," Harry said. "We were _eleven._ After that, of course, I always knew you'd be there when things got ugly." The pair shared a laugh before Harry continued. "That's how I know that you complete our circle. I vow to stand by you in the winter as in the spring, when the days are dark as when they are light, and until the end of all things. Do you accept me?"

Ron took a shuddering breath. "'Course," he said gruffly. "I do." Harry took his hand and slipped the ring on. Green and red sparks shot up. Before the sparks settled, all three joined hands again. Sparks in all three colors jumped between them, creating a colorful, glittery maelstrom that only intensified as Aisha spoke again.

"In witnessing these vows, let me act as the vessel of Magic in blessing this union of souls," she declared. Her eyes flared briefly with light and she broke into chant again. When she finished, she proclaimed, "What had been three is one. What has been joined, let none make undone." Aisha smirked, "You may now kiss your husbands." She disappeared with a pop.

At her last word, the wind whipped into a frenzy, throwing up water and sand. The glow of the rings rose to such a level that they couldn't be looked at straight. The sparks whirled. A passing muggle might have panicked about a bomb, if not been blinded by the light. When the fuss died down, Ron was lying in the surf, supported by his elbows while Neville kissed him hard from his lap, Harry sucking at his neck. The rings - those that could be seen, what with the tangle of limbs - were now bright, pure gold.

"And that's where we'll leave that memory!" Neville interrupted hurriedly. The memory cut off, leaving the returned in the Malfoy sitting room.

As soon as the walls solidified into familiar eggshell blue, Sirius lunged toward the boys. He pulled all three into an ecstatic hug, accompanied in no small part by hair ruffles and over dramatic cheek smooches. Indignant pleas and groans broke out, but it was clear to see how all three reveled in the approval, especially Harry.

"That was brilliant, boys," Sirius said after he finally let them go. "Just absolutely brilliant. Ah, my old heart can barely handle it!"

"Thank you, Sirius," Neville said, smiling. He was thrilled to see Sirius so happy, especially after the slight melancholy he had noticed on Sirius during Draco's wedding. Sirius had always fought so damn hard, both for Harry specifically and in general. The man deserved some peace.

Arthur Weasley was brushing away tears as he embraced Ron. "I'm so proud, Ron. So, so proud and so happy besides." He let go, turning to the two young people his son had married. "I'm so glad the two of you found him and vice versa. I wish it had been easier and that I'd been there for it but I'm still so happy for you."

"Thank you, Arthur," Harry replied, suddenly feeling a bit shy. He had never really thought of Arthur as an in-law before. He had died before Harry had come to grips with his feelings for Ron. He had always been a parental figure to Harry, or a favorite uncle. He wondered if this would make things different.

As though sensing his thoughts, Arthur smiled wetly and pulled Harry in for his own hug. "I've always thought of you as one of my boys," Arthur said as they separated. "This just makes it official."

Harry smiled and felt his nerves settle.

The hugs and congratulations carried on for a while more, as they had after Blaise's memory. Finally, the decision was made to carry on. Oliver Wood upturned his vial, supplying a glimpse into the network of safe houses run by the Resistance. Among snippets of Oliver's rigorous training sessions on advanced broom handling - the broom being the Resistance's main form of transportation - the returned watched children from all races play together while their parents worked to raise and protect them. Oliver seemed to feature as teacher, administrator, mediator, and guardian, running the whole operation - which crossed several international borders - with an iron fist in a velvet Quidditch glove.

"I know I never quite seemed the type. I didn't really think I was, either," Oliver said, blushing. In the memory, he soothed a crying child while a medic bandaged the arm of her exhausted mother. The woman blessed him in Old Latin when he passed the child back, sleeping. Outside the memory, Oliver smiled. "But needs must and, well. I've always had a knack for putting people to good use." Those who had experienced his Quidditch leadership made playful noises of agreement.

The memory flickered again and revealed a makeshift conference room with a huge map taking up the largest wall. Golden dots speckled the continents on display. The Oliver in the memory, exhaustion clear on his face, tapped each dot one by one, pulling up a profile. He spent only a few minutes looking at each before grimly muttering to a quick-quotes-quill. "Inventory," the current Oliver explained, voice gone wooden. "We never had enough of anything. Worse, I always wound up snuffing out more lights than adding them."

Kingsley frowned. "What does that mean?"

Oliver shrugged, gesturing to a smattering of dark dots on the map. "That the safe house was attacked. Even if there was anything left of them, you couldn't use a place the Ministry knew."

Amelia blinked, dread building in her stomach. "Anything left?"

"Sometimes we could beat the Ministry back," Charlie Weasley cut in, thunder-faced. He shuffled under the new attention, crossing his arms. "Didn't happen often."

Kingsley and Amelia exchanged glances. How had their Ministry come to this?

The collection of snapshots ended with Oliver high on a broom, gleefully refereeing a group of youths playing a pick-up game of Quidditch. Twin veela girls flew alongside a forever-tween vampire boy, an amber-eyed werewolf child going for the Snitch against a young wizard. Another werewolf, pig tails flapping in the breeze, supported the boy-wizard with another pair of children, one pixyish, one oddly serpentine. The Oliver in the memory laughed, cast golden in the light of a setting sun, as the children shrieked joyfully and the memory faded out.

Marcus Flint couldn't smother his stupidly-besotted smile. He was so ridiculously proud of Oliver that sometimes he thought his chest would burst with his pride. Gods knew his friends had teased him something awful every time they got drunk together, what with his tendency to ramble on about his husband. Still, that wasn't his fault. He just had the most incredible husband ever. The rest of the world would just have to deal with it.

Taking advantage of the height difference, Marcus slung an arm around his fiancé. His grin turned possessive as he caught the gleam of his heir's ring on Oliver's finger. Soon, he promised himself, it would be a proper wedding ring but that would do for now. Oliver beamed up at him, not at all reserved. Marcus let himself be pulled into a chaste kiss, swearing silently to have Oliver be a Flint again as soon as graduation passed.

"Ick, _lovebirds_ ," Ron snickered teasingly. Oliver shot him a casual middle-finger, sending all the youth, and Sirius, into a round of laughter. Amelia Bones shared a look of long-suffering with Narcissa Malfoy.

Shaking his head, Dean Thomas sent them off next, providing a collection of snippets that matter-of-factly showed the workings of the smuggling system set up by the twins. The twins ran things internationally but Dean was the British head when he wasn't on a mission. These memories similarly showed dedicated, weary people of all creeds working cohesively to live and protect. There were moments of danger but largely the smuggling rings moved randomly enough that the Ministry forces were hard-pressed to do any real harm.

Dean shrugged. "Smuggling wasn't the most dangerous job. There was already a black market serving respectable, moneyed Light-types, so Ministry goons were leery of upsetting that. Can't have anyone making it hard for Minister Fuckhead to get his 'calming potions,' eh?"

Seamus squeezed Dean's hand. That wasn't to say that smuggling was _safe_ , he thought. Dean certainly had come home from smuggling with scars that said otherwise.

Dean squeezed back, grateful beyond words for Seamus' support. He couldn't imagine having done any of what he had without his best friend and boyfriend, would-be fiancé and husband. He had died with the ring in his pocket, last life. He wouldn't again.

Following the conclusion of Dean's memory vignettes, Theo Nott gave a memory selection showcasing the wards used by the Resistance. Many of the older returned were left gaping in astonishment, particularly at the snippet where a covert Ministry unit attempting to break into a safe house was incinerated upon contact with the home.

Neville blinked as little pieces of the attackers danced in the wind, the older Theo smirking from the window as they fluttered around. "Theo, sorry, but how, exactly, was this a happy memory?"

Theo gave Neville a quick, brutal smile. "I don't know about you but frying Ministry goons gives me the warm and fuzzies."

"Here, here," Parvati said, sharing in the bloodlust. Daphne rolled her eyes but didn't disagree. The other youth made similar comments.

Amelia shifted uncomfortably. They all looked so young. The little Greengrass girl, Astoria, was just nine. Even on someone grown such expressions would be offsetting. On children, they were downright sickening.

Another memory began, provided by Seamus Finnigan. They watched as he led a squadron of darkly-clad magicals astride brooms on an air-raid, dropping ward-breakers on the apparently empty countryside. The wards hiding a collection of well-to-do homes shattered and the squadron gave a war-cry as they swooped down. No one died but two men Amelia recognized vaguely from the Ministry were taken captive.

Finnigan grinned, vicious and perhaps not entirely all there. "Higher-ups in the Unspeakables. They're how we knew how to break into the Ministry." He puffed up his chest, "This was the crowning achievement of my squad." He shared a fist-bump with Marcus Flint, of all people. Squad-mates, Amelia supposed.

Harry nodded, his smile pleased and proud. Amelia recognized it instantly as the smile she gave to her apprentices when they had done something particularly well.

"Several squads ran missions like this for various purposes," Harry explained. "Seamus headed up my best, while Daphne coordinated overall." He inclined his head to Daphne. She dipped him a graceful curtsy, which sent all the young returned off laughing.

When the chuckles quieted some, Bill supplied them with a memory of his own. The room shifted from the inky dark night to a large, warm room filled with low, rough-hewn tables and laughing people. The floors were slate and huge beams held up the ceiling. Great stone braziers hung from them, shedding heat and intimate light over the memory's actors, of which several faces were immediately recognizable. The Weasley twins stood out prominently, older but still identical down to their clothing, dancing with a merry mishmash of people the older returned couldn't place. Astoria and Daphne were with them, Seamus and Dean, too, and even Charlie Weasley was glimpsed, spinning Fleur Delacour with a roguish grin.

Out of the memory, Bill nudged his brother. "Fleur, huh?" He sure hadn't noticed _that_ the last time around.

Charlie shrugged, grinning. "She's a hell of a lady." Even so, she hadn't returned. Charlie wondered what would happen. Would he even meet her this time around?

Laughter broke out, drawing their attention back to the memory. Sat at the head of one of the low tables, Fenrir Greyback reclined like a king against an assortment of furs and pillows. Bill was tucked loosely against his side, long hair free and gleaming in the firelight. Draco and Blaise sat at the couple's right, Harry, Ron, and Neville on the left. Miscellaneous men and women filled the rest of the table. A woman turned, laughing at a story being told by Marcus Flint, and her amber eyes glowed.

Remus jerked, the oddly high number of amber and glacial blue-eyed people making sudden sense. He turned his head slowly, taking in details he had glanced over before - finely woven tapestries displaying wolves at rest, play, and hunt; Celtic-like carvings in the beams, intricately forming prowling wolf bodies and snarling maws. A hole in the ceiling that allowed moonlight and clean air in, probably charmed to keep out the rain and pests.

This was a den, Remus thought, shocked. Or the entertaining hall of one, at least. He had been told dens often spiraled out for acres underground, containing countless rooms and halls. He could have been misinformed, however. Even as an emissary of Dumbledore's, Remus had never been invited inside a den. To his knowledge, no non-werewolf or werewolf aligned with regular magicals ever had. In his lifetime and all the years before, a scene as Bill was showing had never existed. This was the home of no liberal or fledgling pack, either, but Fenrir Greyback's. Never a more conservative and terroristic alpha had there been, in Remus' opinion. He felt it was a fair one, as his furry little problem had been the result Fenrir's beliefs.

You would have never believed that, to witness this. The non-werewolf witches and wizards of Harry's rebel faction moved freely among the Greyback pack, treated as trusted allies, even friends. Harry, Draco, and their husbands all sat in places of honor at Greyback's right and left. Perhaps most surprising of all, however, were Greyback and Bill themselves. Rather than partially shifting into his wolf form, a classic method of intimidation, Greyback was entirely human, relaxed, laughing. Bill, despite the slight sheen of Lycanthropy in his eyes, had not been bitten, either. Fenrir Greyback's mate, left almost entirely human. Remus thought he might need to sit down.

Lucius shot him a look full of concern, meaning that Remus had been blunt with his expressions again. Damn, he thought. One of these days he swore he would learn to keep the emotion off his face - not that such promises had done him much good in the past

Lacing his fingers with Lucius', Remus brushed a chaste kiss on his cheek. He had never turned Lucius. Never let himself consider it, even as the wolf in his chest whined at him, pining to run with his mate. Lucius had already survived the hell of one cruel master. What was left of the wizard in Remus was appalled that his unguarded heart would desire to give him another - the moon.

"Stop," Lucius commanded in a low, deadly whisper. Only a werewolf at Remus' range would have caught the words. Remus doubted anyone else had even seen Lucius' mouth move. The hair along Remus' neck rose, hyper-aware. Lucius' quicksilver eyes narrowed. "I can feel your self-abuse without even glancing at your mind. Cease now."

"Lucius," Remus tried, but Lucius merely raised an eyebrow. He was the very image of a man used to being listened to. Remus felt the tension go out of his shoulders, a conditioned reaction to that expression. If Remus tried to argue his way he would just waste his breath. Maybe consign himself to a punitive shopping trip. However, if he capitulated early, the reward sex would be incredible, he thought wryly.

Besides, for every argument Remus made for his own damnation, Lucius would simply counter him. Lucius had been taught the art of debate from his first word and, against all reason, he loved Remus. Every oratorical skill he possessed was just another addition to the arsenal Lucius used to convince Remus of his own worth. By the end of such 'discussions,' as termed by Lucius, Remus more often than not found himself red-faced and curled into Lucius's chest, the only reasonable reaction, he felt, to someone who had such unreasonably staunch faith in you.

Remus felt a smile tugging at his lips. Lucius' idea of 'supportive partner' presented itself in unusual ways but was no doubt successful. Likely sensing his victory, Lucius offered his hand, kissing Remus' knuckles when Remus accepted. Remus blushed, half-wishing he had grown out his mustache rather than shaved it off. At least then he wouldn't be so obvious around all of his stone-cold friends. Safe to say, Remus didn't play a lot of poker.

Remus was snapped from his musings when, in the memory, Fenrir Greyback rose from his position with a short, sharp howl. The humans in the memory fell silent while the pack replied. As the last wolfish cry quieted, all the people gave their attention to the Alpha.

Fenrir slid his eyes coolly across the room. "This year has been a hard one," he pronounced in a cold, growling voice. He words carried like a thunderclap. "What hopes we had before have collapsed and many have been lost." A low, mournful howl rocked the room. Fenrir let the cry fade away naturally. "Yet," he snapped, commanding fresh attention, "Those who are left to remember, we have found new hopes." A roguish grin slowly curled his mouth. "We have found new allies," he gestured to Harry and Draco, who stood. A cheer broke out from the pack and the rebels. "We will defeat our old enemies," Fenrir continued, to growing noise. "We will take what we deserve - no less than twice the blood that from us was taken!" His entire speech to that point had been laced with the rolling cadence of a building tempest and with that last word the storm broke. The tension in the room snapped into an eruption of cheers and war cries, people leaping to their feet in support. Only Fenrir's raised hand settled the room again. "May we right the wrongs been done," he said simply.

"And may well the war be won," Harry finished, shifting forward to clasp Fenrir's arm. At once any sense of calm dissipated, displaced by the roaring approval of the crowd. The music picked up again, loud and raucous, and several people disappeared through a large arched doorway to return with platters heaped with food and steaming mead jugs. Once again, the crowd cheered.

Chuckling, the Bill in the memory rose gracefully to his feet. He placed a gentle hand on Fenrir's shoulder, followed by an only slightly hesitant kiss to the alpha's cheek. "That was well said."

Fenrir grinned, all but melting under Bill's touch. "May I?" He murmured. When Bill nodded, Fenrir instantly locked an arm around Bill's waist, molding Bill to his side. Fenrir rumbled happily, low in his chest, making Bill laugh again.

"You're ridiculous," Bill murmured, laying his head on Fenrir's shoulder.

Fenrir hummed, "Only for you."

There was a beat where the couple merely stood wrapped in each other, eyes on the room. Harry had been tugged into a lively tangle with his husbands, only graceful by virtue of Ron and Neville's excellent tandem lead. Draco and Blaise showed up the whole assembly with an inspiring waltz - how they kept time with the most haphazard band Remus had ever heard was magic in itself. Obviously, it was also something of a personal skill - Marcus Flint, from just as pureblood a family as the Zabinis, only swayed, blushing nervously. Oliver appeared quite happy with that, though, curled sweetly into Marcus' shoulder.

"Do you think we'll really be okay?" Bill asked softly, not looking at Fenrir. The returned could easily see where his attention was focused. Towards the back of the room, Charlie Weasley spun Fleur Delacour, Percy just beside him, blushing Remembrall-red as a she-wolf pawed at him playfully. The twins were leading a cheerful gavotte that seemed to take up half the dancers, while Ron laughed as he spun both husbands, one in each hand.

Fenrir tensed before slowly, intentionally relaxing his frame. He ran careful fingers through Bill's hair, taking care to let Bill see his movements. "I would lay down my life to make it so."

Bill smiled, which pulled at the scars on his face. When Fenrir flinched his hand away, guilt in his eyes, Bill easily stole his hand out of the air and tangled their fingers together. He tugged Fenrir forward and pulled him in for a chaste kiss, then carefully rested their foreheads together. "I believe you," he said simply, eyes closed.

The memory faded away within a final few notes of music.

* * *

 **Hello, darlings!**

 **So, unusually quick update this time, but what can I say, I was inspired by your lovely reviews and apparently limitless faith in my ability to get this damn story done. That said, I just want to let you know that I'll be reading over this story in its entirety and fixing some of the nitpicky bits that bug me. So, yes. Keep an eye out for that. Anyway, I love you all and can't wait to hear what you have to say - please come talk to me! That's what keeps me writing!**

 **Yours,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


	20. The Fall

**Warning: Graphic description of a child's death.**

Once the blue walls of the Malfoy sitting room had fully reclaimed themselves, Bill cleared his throat. "That was the sixth of June, 1999," Bill said, voice raw. His body was caged by Fenrir's, the alpha wolf's dark eyes sharp with emotion. Bill swallowed. "That was the last time I really remember having any hope."

"Just a year after the Final Battle," Amelia murmured. She turned to Bill. "The Ministry attack, though. That was surely a turning point for your Resistance?"

Bill shrugged. "Was it?" He asked in the general direction of the other rebels. "I wouldn't know, really. Fenrir and I only lived another four months after the Ministry went down."

Arthur looked at his eldest, eyes wide with shock and face pale with dread. "How?"

Bill softened, stepping away from Fenrir to gently take up his father's hand. He didn't acknowledge how Arthur's fingers immediately swept over his pulse. "The Ministry attacked Knockturn Alley. We were escorting a group of children out when we were cornered and overwhelmed." Bill smiled. "The kids made it, though."

Arthur nodded once, sharply. His face was grim as he pulled his eldest boy in for a quick, hard hug. "I am very proud of you," Arthur said, locking eyes with Bill. "Even if I wish with all my heart that you had never had to make such a choice."

Bill dipped his head as they parted, blinking fast. Fenrir was beside him immediately, an arm tucking around Bill's waist. Bill leaned into him as though he had been doing so all his life.

From over Bill's shoulder, Arthur gave an approving smile to his past and future son-in-law. Fenrir blinked, surprised by _anyone_ who wasn't his pack giving him approval, but accepted the gesture gratefully. It was nice, he thought, knowing that his mate's dad wasn't going to go looking for a silver dagger anytime soon. Bill would agree, Fenrir knew - his family was obviously important to him, like the pack was to Fenrir. Rather than one replacing the other, Fenrir swore he would do his damnedest to make both compatible, if only for Bill's sake.

"The Ministry attack didn't do as much as we had hoped," Daphne finally answered, drawing the conversation back to Amelia's question. "Objectively, we succeeded. However, the Light didn't destabilize as we had assumed they would."

Ron nodded, face growing distant with memory. "After aligning with the Greyback pack, we had better odds. However, we still weren't an even match." Ron rubbed at his forehead, feeling the familiar stress build between his eyes. "Even if our soldiers were objectively superior, we were always outnumbered, under-armed, and scrambling from one hideout to another. That all takes a toll even when your enemy doesn't have home-field advantage."

"We'd hoped that taking out the Ministry buildings would kill the hydra," Harry summarized. "Instead, we just cut off a head."

"Not to say that we didn't give them hell anyway!" Astoria Greengrass piped up. The words were disturbing coming from such a small child, still cuddled up on her big sister's lap. "After we took out the Ministry in October of 2000, they never managed to reestablish. We also hit St. Mungo's and took out the monster factory there six months after. Then there were the regular raids on Diagon Alley, which was basically a death camp by then, and our defense of Knockturn right up until the end, along with the Forbidden Forest." She paused, thinking. "We really did quite a lot, didn't we? In not even two years of fighting."

"Twenty-one months," Daphne said softly, running her fingers through her sister's hair. "It felt so much longer.

Dean looked at Seamus, the boyfriend he was never able to make his husband. "At the same time, it felt like no time at all," he said.

"We didn't even make it to our first anniversary," Blaise added wonderingly. He hadn't yet had the time to think about that. "We died about four months after the wedding."

Narcissa flinched. She turned to her son. "Draco..."

"We married on Valentine's Day, 2001," Draco replied tonelessly. He had hunched into himself, posture forbidding touch. "We died on June tenth."

"My Gods," Lucius muttered, running a hand over his face - a tick developed as an overwhelmed child, quickly beaten out of him. He tried for composure but what he was able to dredge up felt shaky and weak, much like his body. Just like on the day of his return, he thought ruefully.

Lucius had been - mercifully - in his home office, ostensibly engaged in paperwork while instead wondering about how Draco was finding his first year. Lucius had been midway through an anxiety-driven panic-fantasy wherein Slytherin House had been corrupted by Dumbledore and Draco had been attacked the moment the train had pulled away, leaving the whole family to flee to Bulgaria when a stray thought had popped into his head: _At least Bulgaria doesn't persecute werewolves._

Lucius had paused mid-daydream, utterly confused. Why would he care at all about - and then the memories had hit him. Lucius had been hyperventilating - as much as one could, when unable to move a muscle - when Narcissa had burst through the door. One glance hand been exchanged. In a heartbeat, he was holding her as he hadn't since they were children, her silent tears soaking his shoulder.

Narcissa had told him in shakes and gasps about losing him, then Remus. Lucius could have almost coped with that. He and Remus had fought two wars. They had married quickly precisely because they had known they could die at any second. They had made peace with leaving each other violently, even if they had thought themselves safe at the time of their deaths. However, that hadn't been the end of Narcissa's confession. She had continued to tell him about Kingsley losing his position, about taking Teddy into hiding, and then the house arrest and the run for the MUSA and then - being caught and sentenced to hang - her, Kingsley, _and_ _Teddy._

Lucius had been on the floor before he had processed the weakness in his legs. He had been vaguely cognizant of her arms tucking around him but not much else. Just the crushing weight in his chest - his baby had _hung_. Teddy hadn't even been two. He had been born in November of 1996 and they had killed him in September of 1998. Lucius had nearly gone to pieces right there on the carpet, never to be put back together again. Only Narcissa's hissed whispering about Draco had kept Lucius together. Teddy was gone, maybe never to return if Remus didn't remember and, oh, that thought had come very close to setting him off again. Yet, Draco was still alive. Even if his youngest baby had died, Lucius had still had his first child. Using that as a cornerstone, Lucius had pulled himself together and done what he had always done best: made plans.

Lucius had once more come close to tumbling off the edge when telling Remus. They had been able to shore each other up with fragile words and desperate reassurances, yet hearing that Draco had indeed died, Lucius felt that familiar weakness come over him again. He knew that he hadn't been a perfect father to Draco - Gods, most days he felt he hadn't even been a decent one. However, Lucius would open the gates of Hell before saying he didn't love his son and do worse to protect him. Knowing that he had failed his primary goal since the midwife had placed Draco's tiny body in his arms put Lucius dangerously close to that terrible edge.

Gods, Lucius thought, suddenly exhausted. He needed a drink.

A supernaturally strong arm locked around his waist, keeping Lucius up even as his bones sagged. He had a few inches on Remus, was broader in the shoulder and more muscular, but Remus was a whipcord of preternatural strength even when he wasn't tapping into his lunar nature. Lycanthropy was hard on bodies in the best condition and Remus had long realized being out if shape did him no favours. Generally, Lucius appreciated that as one should a blessing but currently all he could focus on was his breathing. Somehow, he had failed not just one son but both. How did one move on from that?

"Draco is fine," Remus murmured. Lucius forced himself to nod. He knew that, logically. Draco stood right in front of him. His dithering heart just wouldn't listen. Sucking in a deep breath, Lucius focused on his son, who was curled in on himself like he didn't even want the air to touch him. Lucius felt the itch to act. He was hesitant, though - what could possibly make this better?

He looked to Blaise Zabini and found that the boy looked even less sure than Lucius felt. Blaise hovered, body leaning close by paused just short of touch. Around them, the conversation carried on, oblivious. Lucius could pick out Amelia Bones exercising her verbosity while Kingsley asked short, pointed questions. Arthur spoke up occasionally, softly but not shyly, which Lucius found distantly interesting. Severus said nothing while Sirius said anything that flitted to mind. Narcissa made appropriate conversational noises but Lucius knew that Draco had her true attention. Lucius glanced again to Blaise, hoping for a hint of how to help. Certainly, as Draco's husband, he should provide some clue - but not yet married a year, Lucius remembered. Lucius had not even known Narcissa's colour preference at a year. They had fought viciously over something as simple as which wine to have at dinner. The first year with Remus, Lucius made a regrettable crack about the Marauders that had started a week-long fight. The closer the full moon came each month that year the nearer Lucius had felt to stepping on a landmine.

Blaise had been allotted about four months to learn his husband while living in a war zone before being chucked back in time. Good Gods, no wonder he hesitated. Lucius wondered if he had ever even seen Draco like this, if there had ever been enough of a reprieve in battle and adrenaline. The Gods only knew, just as they were apparently the only ones who knew what action to take. Well, Lucius thought, he could work with that. If action failed to materialize, that simply meant they needed to buy some time. Lucius knew how to do that.

"While this is all very interesting," Lucius drawled, drawing the room away from what was rapidly becoming a tensely snapped disaster. Apparently, the topic had turned to _morality_ while Lucius was busy mulling. He felt a sneer rise up - as if that mattered at all. "I find myself certain that they are still some memories yet to be revealed. Might I request we see these before discussing the finer points of proportional retaliation?" He locked eyes pointedly with Amelia. She glared in return but eventually conceded the point.

"You are correct, Lucius," Amelia replied tightly. "We must indeed have all the pieces."

Lucius inclined his head elegantly, eyes assessing. Amelia wasn't the only person whose sensibilities had taken a beating - both Kingsley and Arthur had looked sickened at turns and even Remus had flinched at some of the lengths the rebels had taken. Amelia was the loudest critic, however, with the most faith in the Ministry. Lucius suspected she thought she could control the place, especially now as Minister. She hadn't been there to see the hysteria, the raw panic that had swept society with the fall of Voldemort. Lucius may not have believed it without having lived it, either.

A low chuckle broke Lucius' musings. Draco had straightened up, his arms crossed over his tiny eleven-year-old chest. His right hand tapped its fingers against his vial. He should have looked ludicrous; so young but with the posture of a broken man. Yet, Lucius only felt dread.

"I have a piece for you, Minister," Draco said, his tone perfectly reasonable. A chill lanced down Lucius' back.

"Draco," Blaise murmured, hand finding the crook of Draco's arm at last. Draco didn't brush him away. He didn't drop his eyes from Amelia, either.

Amelia swallowed visibly. She had obviously sensed the new tension in the room. "What, pray tell, is that?"

"You question the level of violence we used," Draco stated. There was no hint of accusation in his voice, merely the dry statement of fact. "You think we were overzealous at best, perhaps utterly immoral. Even after the Ministry memories."

Amelia stiffened. "What you experienced was horrific," Amelia said slowly. "I can't imagine your sorrow and I can't imagine what you went through. Even at the heart of the last _two wars_ , though, we didn't kill so readily. We used our lethality sparingly. We certainly didn't _flatten_ people, not even Death Eaters." Her eyes cut around accusingly to the several people in the room who had borne the mark. "Let alone guards and aurors who likely didn't even know what the Ministry was up to."

The room exploded with noise. Several of the young returned cried out, wrathful and cursing. Sirius Black likely would have sucker-punched her if not for Severus' staying hand. Others, like Rita Skeeter, had faces that flickered briefly with disappointment. Still more seemed unsure - Arthur was watching his boys closely while Kingsley looked away. The young Susan Bones didn't seem to know what to think, eyes flickering around without purpose. The whole event might have devolved into a right mess had a burst of green sparks not shot into the air with a bang.

Harry Potter stood stone-faced in the ensuing silence, wand still pointed to the ceiling. "Draco," he said with a voice of soft authority, "I assume you're working towards a point?"

Draco smirked. "You know me so well."

Harry nodded. "On with it, then."

Draco rolled his shoulders. He licked his lips. "For the record," he said perfunctorily, "I'm sorry." Then he thumbed off the vial's plug.

Bubbling memory seeped into the room, spilling abrupt darkness over the furniture, which faded with the walls and floors into cobbled streets and boarded up storefronts. A cold sliver of moon provided the only light. There wasn't a sound to be heard, which made a woman's gasp a very noticeable.

Rita Skeeter had a hand uselessly over her mouth, though the whole of the returned had already heard her and turned appropriately. "Oh, Draco..." Rita muttered, uncaring of the attention. She was watching Draco. She knew this scene. The first addition of _The Cassandra Times_ had featured its awful story.

Beside her, Lavender closed her eyes. She, too, was familiar with this story. Rita didn't blame her for trying to block the images out. This story had been one of those that stuck to your insides like dried blood - the fall of the House of Malfoy.

Draco, blank-faced and young, didn't appear phased. "She wants to know why we fought like demons. I thought I'd show her."

"What?" Sirius said, shifting. There was a new, bad tension in the room. He didn't like it at all. "I think we get why. I mean, sweet fuck, the Ministry..."

Amelia looked away. She'd had nightmares about the Ministry. There were images in her head she would never forget. Yet, she had also woke in the midst of a horrid pressure pushing her down, crushing her... Surely, that couldn't be warranted. Not when she had killed maybe one Death Eater in all her years as an auror. There was evil in the basement of the Ministry, unjustifiable cruelties in the street, yes. There was something wrong. She wouldn't argue that. Yet, they had never killed like this. Not during either war. How could such lengths be justified?

The telltale crack of apparition wrecked any opportunity for an answer, spitting two forms - young men - violently into the street. Immediately, something was obviously wrong. The blond - Draco - stumbled his landing, losing his footing and slamming hard into the stone, backward. His hands were full of Blaise, who fell with him. They rolled with the motion, though, and were instantly up, squared to fight back to back.

Draco faced the returned, eyes wild, cheek, nose, and snarling mouth bloodied. His hair was chin length, not the long flow of blond they had seen in the Ministry memory, and fell haphazard across his face. He was obviously younger - eighteen, Sirius guessed, seeing as Sirius remembered this look. This was before Draco had figured out the wandless stuff, too, apparently. His whole arm trembled as he pointed his wand at enemies that he must have left behind when he apparated.

"What the hell," Draco gasped in the memory, his voice cracking. His throat was red, like someone had been interrupted in strangling him. Spellfire singes decorated his clothing and even with no obvious threats, it seemed to take him real effort to lower his wand. "What the hell was that, Blaise?"

"We had just returned from Italy," the Draco of the present said calmly. "We were greeted by Ministry officials out for our blood. We weren't very receptive to that."

"You were supposed to stay in Italy for years," Narcissa bit out. Draco had been finishing out his potions mastery there - while living with the Zabinis. Damn, she thought, momentarily distracted. How had she missed that? Pushing the thoughts away, she asked desperately, "Why did you come back?"

"Draco had asked me to marry him," Blaise replied. His whole focus was on Draco, who watched the scene with a worryingly serene expression. "We had tried sending letters but received no reply. We hadn't received any messages at all. We were worried."

"There had been a block put on mail leaving Britain," Draco supplied, placid. "Anything sent within the border was searched first by the Ministry. Besides, we would have had to come back sooner or later thanks to the Reparations Act, like Theo and Luna."

Narcissa nodded, swallowing down her emotions. She had just wanted her boy to be safe. A fool's hope, she supposed.

"Blaise?" The Draco in the memory called again, drawing the attention of the returned once more. Blaise had yet to say anything in this memory, though Draco had prompted him at least twice before. Draco made to turn but Blaise spun abruptly, locking his arms around Draco from behind and holding him in place.

"Oh, Gods, Dray," Blaise choked, slumping into Draco's back. "Please, let's just go. You don't need to see -"

Draco frowned, confusion flaring across his face as he turned, "Blaise, what on Earth -"

The scene seemed to stop. No one spoke and no one breathed. All attention was focused on the structure that seemed to materialize as Draco turned. Perhaps this was the spell's way of ensuring the shock adequately translated. Sirius, stomach roiling and heart broken, thought they could have bloody well done without the dramatics.

Taking up the central square of what was now obviously Diagon Alley was a construction of rough stone blocks, heavy timber, and coarse rope. The length of three dark storefronts and a storey tall from the top beam to stone foundation, the gallows stood grimly, somehow looming though there were buildings that stood far taller. Spaced just so that the silent breeze wasn't enough to send them bumping into each other, eight still bodies hung in a neat row. One was very, very small.

"Merlin," Amelia breathed, but her shock was drowned by the sucking, struggling inhale that came from the memory's Draco.

"What," Draco said so quietly that the returned had to strain to hear. He took a stuttering step. Then another, and another, until he was in a dead run.

"Draco," Blaise called, tearing after him, but Draco beat him to the foot of the platform. It stood as high as his shoulder, so that all could have a good view on a crowded market day. "Draco, please," Blaise tried again, pulling at Draco's shoulder. "We can't help them, we don't even know what this is all about. We must go -"

"That's my mother's dress," Draco said. He stood frozen, his only motion the drip of blood from his bruising nose and split lip. "I helped her pick out the trim."

"Oh, Gods," Sirius breathed. The rest of the return watched in stunned silence, spellbound by horror. In the memory, Draco stared up with wide eyes. Blaise made the only sound; a terrible, shocked mumbling.

The heads of the corpses were covered by white bags. Printed across each was a word. The corpse Draco stood before simply said 'Dark.' The next said 'Traitor.' The third said 'Saboteur.' The next four were all marked 'Dark.' The last corpse, that one very, very small body, was labeled with 'Werewolf.'

Lucius felt blood roll down his knuckles. His nails had cut into the flesh of his fisted palms. He screwed his fingers deeper still. _His baby had hung._ Lucius couldn't take his eyes away. He could barely even make out Remus' trembling body pressing against his side.

Unerringly, the Draco of the memory's gaze drifted in the direction of that littlest corpse. All this time, Blaise had been making disbelieving noises about how Draco must be mistaken, that there had to be witches with the same damn trim. Draco appeared not to have heard a word. Instead, he walked until he came to stop in front of that smallest corpse. Blaise followed him step for step.

"It's stitched in a patented green," Draco said, devoid of anything at all. "Only a Malfoy could have it."

Blaise's jaw dropped. His faced slowly fell into desperation. "It's dark," he tried hopelessly.

Draco didn't bother with a response. Instead, he pulled himself up onto the platform with an easy heave of muscle. There was plenty of room. The little body took up barely any space at all. Wrapping one arm around the waist, Draco made a slicing motion with his wand, cutting the rope. The little body settled stiffly into his arms and Draco slid slowly to his knees, cradling the corpse.

"Draco," Blaise choked, horrified. He made a stumbling motion, as if to follow, but couldn't quite manage. "No," he mouthed, as Draco gently removed the hood. Tears sprung to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

Teddy Malfoy looked up at them in frozen horror, amber eyes gone milky and unseeing. His little mouth was open in a perfect bow of fear. In death, his hair had leached of the colours the young metamorphmagus had favoured mimicking in life, leaving his baby-soft hair the same platinum as his big brother. Draco ran gentle fingers through his bangs, brushing his eyes closed in the same motion. As Draco removed the rope, he looked almost to be sleeping.

"He's barely cold," Draco muttered. "He might have been alive when -"

"Don't!" Blaise snapped, and then, quieter, "Draco, we couldn't, you couldn't - we had no idea. You can't blame-"

"I'll blame who I like!" Draco snarled, then winced. His hands began to shake, tiny earthquakes spreading across his skin. He was breathing harshly, running his fingers through Teddy's hair. "That was Mother," Draco said, "The one beside her, Kingsley. Gods, my whole family..."

Blaise swallowed. "Your father, Remus..."

Draco shook his head. "They never would have laid a finger on Teddy if either were alive."

"Damn right," Lucius hissed, stricken. "Draco, they never would have touched either of you, I swear on my magic."

In the present, Draco sucked in a breath. "I know, Father." _That's why they killed you first._

Draco knew his eyes were wet and red as he watched himself go to pieces in the memory, sobbing into his dead brother's body. Blaise had done his best, in that moment, but Draco had been beyond all comfort. He still felt that way, some days. He unwound his arms, reaching for Blaise. His hand was accepted instantly and he something jagged settle.

Draco swallowed. The Gods only knew what he would do without Blaise.

The squawk of sirens broke the devastating tableau, making all those watching jump. In the memory, Blaise and Draco jerked to attention, wands at the ready. Draco balanced Teddy's corpse on his hip. His face was a mess of tears and blood but none of that had dulled his reflexes. A good thing, as the square was quickly filled with aurors.

"The fuck?" Sirius snarled, wrathful. Could there not be one fucking moment of peace?

"Sensors on the ropes," Blaise explained dully, when it seemed that no one would. "The Ministry didn't want anyone taking a corpse down ahead of schedule. They were warnings."

"God," Amelia gasped, repulsed to her very core. This wasn't just corruption or even the work of a Dark Lord. This was... Hell.

"By order of the Ministry," one of the aurors began, but quicker than lightening grief had flashed to rage and Draco was striking, letting off a volley of godawful curses, the kind only found in the libraries of the oldest, Darkest families. Blaise joined in without a pause.

The memory lit up with colour and noise. Draco and Blaise fought viciously but they were matched against at least ten combatants. One managed to clip Blaise with a body-bind and he fell. As Draco covered him, a spell caught his hand and his wand went flying. With a scream, Draco stumbled for the second time that night and fell almost on top of Blaise, still clinging to Teddy's corpse. The Aurors closed in, wands circling the pair and their cold cargo.

"Due to your noncompliance," the auror who had spoken before said, "I am within my powers to order your immediate execution." The man grinned, dropping his assumed formality. "Beyond me why they didn't just take out you lot right away in the first place, would have saved us a lot of trouble." The assembled aurors jeered in agreement.

"Oh my God," Amelia gasped. She knew that man - Wilkinson, she thought. She hadn't trained him but she had worked with him. He had signed the card the DMLE had sent her when she had gained the ministership. How could he...? Her mind blanked with betrayal and pain.

The auror - yes, Amelia thought, definitely Leon Wilkinson - jerked his head at Teddy's corpse, sneering. "At least it's an immediate put-down for those types," he said. "Only reason they even bothered to hang it was so that people would know it didn't matter how famous or rich your family is. Monsters don't get to live."

Lucius made a choked-off noise, part sob, part curse. He could feel tears on his face. He wanted to turn away but how could he? This was his fault. He was supposed to protect his children and he had failed. His lightest penance was to bear witness. He couldn't turn away.

" _How_ ," Arthur gasped, dumbstruck. His own children - he could rationalize their deaths, even in his agony. They were fighters, soldiers, and people in those roles died. There was some logic there, no matter how skewed. Yet, Teddy Malfoy... "He's just a baby."

"They legalized werewolf hunting," Remus gasped. "There was no build-up, nothing, just - legalized. I was in London," Remus coughed, "Dealing with - _affairs_. I - I didn't last the day."

Lucius closed his eyes. "You were in London because I died. This only _passed_ because I died." _This only happened because I died._

"You were murdered, Lucius," Narcissa said through tears, exhausted with keeping up pretences. "You hardly had a choice."

"Did any of us?" Severus asked. Grief made a mockery of his blank face.

In the memory, Draco's trembling had increased tenfold. His skin didn't seem to be enough to control his rage, his pain. His eyes flared with quicksilver aggression, teeth bared. He was hunched on the ground, cradling a dead child and still fiancé, but in no way did he appear beaten. Rather, he was like a feral thing, wild and waiting for a moment of weakness to sink tooth and claw into.

The auror swallowed, suddenly uncomfortably. Perhaps he had sensed the tension. He shifted, obviously grabbing for bravado in front of his men. "What, Malfoy? You shaking because you're scared?" The ring of aurors chuckled and the leader rocked back on his heels, comforted. At least, until a broken laugh shook out past Draco's lips.

"I bet you would just love that, you sick sack of common excrement," Draco snarled, straightening. The shaking had receded, replaced by something raw and _strong_. Draco's voice thrummed with it, with violence and powerful hatred.

The auror growled, straightening his wand again. "Time to fucking die, you Dark bastard."

Draco tossed his head back and laughed horribly again. "No," Draco said, shaking his head. He still held Teddy. "No, I think you have that a bit confused."

The auror reared back but nothing could have saved him or his compatriots. Face a demonic twist, Draco screamed as his whipped his extended hand from left to right, palm out as though to strike - and strike he did. The aurors flew as though knocked from the ground by the hand of the divine. Surprise briefly lit Draco's face, like he couldn't believe that had worked, but he didn't slow down. Pulling his hand back to his chest, he struck again, this time thrusting out, palm up, as if he were trying to break a nose. The aurors smashed against the far building, connecting with a wet thump. Draco raised his arm and the aurors went higher, those conscious screaming. When they reached the top of the building, Draco finally let them free. They slammed into the ground with a sickening thud.

Draco dropped his posture like a puppet with his strings cut, gasping for breath. He was bleeding from dozens of cuts and burns, physically and mentally exhausted. Still, he gathered Blaise and Teddy's corpse and screwed his eyes shut. With a determined scream and a deafening crack, the three bodies disappeared from the square. The memory ended as the last echo of the disapparition faded out.

The silence in the room was deafening. Safe within the dainty blue walls and warm hardwood floor, the horror of Draco's memory should have seemed further away. Yet, not a single person could forget the sight of blood. The sound of Draco's grief or Blaise's desperation. Their rage and terrible sorrow. Teddy's waxen, fearful face. His frozen eyes.

"That was September 6, 1998." Draco said after the silence had stretched past his tolerance. "Father was murdered in mid-August. Hunters killed Remus and would have killed Teddy if Mum hadn't been looking after him that day. She and Kingsley hid Teddy and later went on the run. You can guess what happened next."

"He was just a baby," Arthur said again, stunned. He was sick at heart for Draco, as well as Lucius and Remus and Narcissa, who he had become quite close to since returning.

"It didn't matter how much of a werewolf you were," Bill said, detached. "Turned children, the children of werewolves, those who only bore a scratch or were partially afflicted somehow else, none of that mattered. It was open season on all of us."

"We've always had it bad," Fenrir muttered, "But this was the nightmare. The pack...?"

Bill shook his head. Fenrir closed his eyes. The conversation dropped.

Finally, Draco sighed. Not just a sigh of tiredness, or even exhaustion, but of total and complete depletion. "Is this enough?" He asked no one in particular. His gaze focused out the window, where the sun shone and baleful albino peacocks still idly plucked along the lawn. "Does this convince you that we aren't monsters? That we weren't just killing for shits and giggles? Because I certainly don't have anything left." Draco ripped his eyes from the window, clearing his throat abruptly. "In fact, may I suggest a recess?"

"Of course," Narcissa said quickly, the long-ingrained traditions of hosting pulling her back. "I'll have lunch set for twelve o'clock. Feel free to come as you please," she added, an afterthought. Certainly, no one needed the pressure of even light formality right then. Unable to make herself move, she sat gracelessly on the nearest sofa.

Draco nodded once, sharply, just like his father. He then turned and promptly disappeared out the sitting room doors. Without a second of hesitation, Lucius followed.

* * *

 **Well, I hope you all enjoyed that. I am pretty proud of this chapter, actually, so I hope I'm not unfounded in feeling so. I honestly thought I would be done with the memories by this point but what can I say, the Malfoys have demanded way more of my attention than I thought they would. Hopefully you enjoy that, though. Let me know what you think! On another note, I have revamped this story. By this I mean I fixed some plot holes and the timeline (again) so hopefully that all functions better now *nervous laughter.* Also, I cut out the Creeveys as returned. I am very sorry to anyone who loved them but I have so many characters that I honestly just couldn't give them the time. I am tentatively hoping to conclude this story by the end of first year, so they would have had a minor presence anyway that I felt could be better used elsewhere. So, yes. I hope you all agree.**

 **Love you always and thank you for your wonderful reviews. Your reviews are the reason I open my stories up to the public so please come chat with me! I do my best to reply to everyone!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **BlackRoseGirl666**


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